


The Island at the End of the World

by earthbellamy (samssalvation)



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: (like wow talk about blast from the past man), (sorta i mean she was going to med school okay??), AU, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Atlantis, Atlantis AU, Bellarke, Doctor Clarke, F/M, Fantasy, Mythology - Freeform, Warrior Bellamy, aLSO IT'S NOT THE MOVIE ATLANTIS??, and i might bump this up to an m rated story later...we'll see, haven't seen that in forever
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-05-15
Packaged: 2018-03-12 23:35:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3359459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samssalvation/pseuds/earthbellamy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>And in a single day and night of misfortune all your warlike men in a body sank into the earth, and the island of Atlantis in like manner disappeared into the depths of the sea.</i> - Plato, <i>Timaeus</i></p><p>When Clarke lands the lost island of Atlantis, the last thing she was expecting to find was a thriving, reclusive society bent on staying hidden from the world. </p><p>Or a certain Atlantian warrior who doesn't trust Clarke in the least.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Atlantis Mission is officially out of time.

"You can't do this to us!"

The exclamation wasn't contained by the ornate double doors leading into the study, and it rang down the hall to where the rest of the team was sitting, on a row of benches, pretending they couldn't hear the massive throw-down going on in the closed room. They exchanged furtive glances at the sound of a shattering vase, undoubtedly the work of the team's leader, Clarke Griffin.

The muffled shouting continued, interspersed with the low pacifying murmur of Cage Wallace's voice. The president of the Wallace Group had just told the team that their funds were going to be cut off in a month's time. As was expected, Clarke hadn't taken the news sitting down. For a twenty-three-year-old grad student, she certainly could pack a verbal punch (as well as a few good physical ones).

"How long do you think they've been at it?" Raven Reyes, the team's mechanical engineer, asked.

The lithe, small Asian boy sitting next to her glanced at his watch. Monty Green, the tech faction of the group, could always be relied on for having the time (though he typically had the dew point, atmospheric pressure, and current temperature as well). "A solid half hour at least."

"Are they going for the record or something?" Raven muttered, clasping her hands between her knees and hanging her head. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the dejected forms of her three other teammates. "If we've only got a month left, then we should be using every moment we have."

At that exact instant, the shouting in the other room cut off. The group caught their breaths in surprise, instinctively leaning forward in their seats to listen more closely. Instead of further conversation, they were rewarded with the sight of a furious Clarke throwing open the doors so hard they banged against the walls.

She stormed down the hall towards them, blond hair in a messy halo around her head and messenger back slung over her shoulder. There were two spots of color high on her cheeks. The moment her eyes landed on her team, she growled, "He brought him up again."

Jasper Jordan, the biologist, sucked in a hissing breath through his teeth as he winced. "I thought he'd learned better."

"He said my father wouldn't want me to spend my life chasing a story," Clarke said, coming to a halt in front of her friends, who were all on their feet and ready to leave. In a lower voice, she continued, "Like he knew my father at all."

A stiff silence fell between the teammates as they contemplated the creator of the Atlantis Mission, who had died in a car accident a year ago. Clarke had taken up her father's research to find the lost island, using the remaining grant from the Wallace Group to carry out his work.

Finally, Finn Collins spoke up, using his moderated lawyer-voice that the team knew all too well from hearing him negotiate with sponsors. "So . . . what do you want to do now, Clarke?"

Clarke contemplated the question for a long moment before she cleared her throat. "We'll have to go into the field."

Raven immediately protested. "Clarke, we haven't got enough info on the site. It's just a guess. Besides which, I still haven't figured a way to filter oxygen out of the surrounding water. There wouldn't be enough time in the water to - "

"We've got a month, Raven," Clarke interrupted. "And there is only one full moon between now and the time that money runs out, and we are using that spring tide whether the suit is ready or not. I'm finding that island."

The group quieted at the raw determination in her voice. Seeing the tentative, uncertain expressions on their faces, Clarke sighed and said, "My father devoted his entire life to finding Atlantis. He read every book, looked at every map, analyzed every ocean scan. I am  _not_  letting that much time go to waste, not after all he did. Not after all we've put into it." _  
_

Slowly, Raven nodded, and the others followed suit. With the whole team's approval, Clarke moved directly into barking orders. "Jordan, you're going to finish the medical pack. Monty, you've got to fix up that communications head piece. Raven, keep working on that suit, but be prepared in case you can't finish it by the full moon - that's in seventeen days, guys - and Finn, clear the scientific research visas with Greece and make sure the lab in Santorini is ready for us."

The team let out hasty agreements and started off down the hall, discussing animatedly the new courses of action that had to be taken with the extremely condensed time frame. Clarke stood behind, watching them go, finally allowing herself to feel the leaden weight of her heart pressing against her lungs. It was getting very hard to breath.

For as long as she was old enough to understand, her father had told her about the mythical island of Atlantis, spinning a story so real, so vibrant, that she had never once doubted that it had to be real. An ancient Greek island that had disappeared following the Minoan volcanic eruption, that appeared on the edges of the horizon on the highest tide of the month and vanishing into the fog at sunrise. Now it would be pile of ruins, but even a single granite pillar would be enough for her. Her entire life, she'd heard other scientists mock her father behind her back, calling his mission "pseudoscience", a wild goose chase. That was why her mother had left.

But Clarke hadn't. And Clarke wasn't about to desert his legacy just because the Wallace Group decided that the Atlantis Mission wasn't "a viable business venture" anymore. She could still see the image of Cage Wallace's patronizing eyes when she closed her eyes.

_We haven't seen any concrete evidence from your team, Clarke. I wish there was more I could do, but the Board of Directors was adamant: unless your hypothesis becomes fact, we can't divert any more of our funds into your little mission._

The rage she'd felt back in his study returned for a moment, blazing out of the embers and urging her to turn back around at give Wallace an even bigger piece of her mind. Fortunately, her reason got a hold on her again and she propelled herself in the opposite direction, down the hall following the path of her teammates.

They were going to find Atlantis.

It was the only option.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on [this post](http://underbellamy.tumblr.com/post/110836768303/oh-my-god-yo-though-at-a-bellarke-atlantis-au). But it's not based on the movie (sorry), it's my own Atlantis.
> 
> Find me on tumblr as earthbellamy.


	2. 1 : not over yet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Atlantis Mission lands on Santorini, and Clarke sets out for Atlantis.

**Seventeen Days Later**

The Atlantis Mission arrived on the shores of Santorini with the grim satisfaction of those who knew they were about to hit rock bottom. The boat ride from the island of Naxos further to the north had given the team ample time to check and recheck that they had all their supplies - which they did - and call the Okeanos Lab twenty times over to make sure they were expecting them. By the twentieth call, the lab simply answered the phone with an impatient, "Yes," and hung up again.

Now that they were there, however, they took a moment to appreciate the view. The caldera walls that made up the inner circle of the island, formed in the Minoan eruption, rose three hundred metres above their heads. The main town, Fira, was high above them, glistening in hues of white and blue under the unabating June sun. The rest of the passengers on the boat, the majority of them tourists, immediately began snapping pictures.

Jasper reached into his pocket to pull out his camera phone, but Monty knocked his hand aside. "There's no way you're using that excuse again. You're helping us unload the gear."

"Naxos was a beautiful island, and if you can't appreciate that - "

Clarke cut Jasper off mid-protest. "Grab a trunk and get moving."

Defeated, he returned his phone to his pocket and began dragging one of the wheeled cases across the deck and down the metal ramp onto the board walkway. Unlike a large portion of the boat's passengers, the Atlantis Mission was not taking the labor-intensive, albeit scenic footpath zigzagging up the side of the cliff-face. Instead, they shuffled their equipment and personal belongings over to the steep cable car that ran directly up the caldera wall and into Fira. Jasper complained the whole ride up, to which Monty interspersed dead pan comments about the strain on poor Jasper's muscles.

Finally, they got off at the top of the cliff and stepped into the bustling, lively town where a year's work would either pay off or fall out from under them. The team took in a collective breath, feeling the abyss of uncertainty yawning in front of them.

A moment later, Clarke started off and gestured behind her impatiently for the others to follow. "It's not over yet, guys. Stop acting like somebody died."

"Actually, I'm pretty sure Jasper's heart gave out somewhere on the boardwalk," Monty joked. Clarke couldn't see what happened next, but she was pretty sure that Jasper elbowed Monty in the ribs by the rush of expelled air that followed his words.

Finn hurried up to walk beside Clarke, unfolding a map of the island with his free hand. Clarke glanced down at the piece of paper, holding in a snort of laughter. "People still use those?"

"It might not be as high tech as your GPS,  _princess_ , but it never crashes and it doesn't make angry robot noises when I miss a turn," Finn replied, not looking up from his map.

"How bad do you have to screw up to have a GPS make angry robot noises at you?" Clarke asked lightly. There was a reason Finn stuck to the talking side of things - two minutes with anything more complicated than a Nokia flip-phone had whatever the device was either frozen or crashed.

Finn gave her a sidelong look that clearly said he didn't appreciate her sarcasm. Turning back to his map, he said, "The lab is just through the square and along that road over there."

He indicated the direction with a jerk of his head. He proceeded to fold up the map and tuck it into a side pocket on his backpack. His too-long hair kept getting into his eyes as he tried to zip the pocket back up. After a second of rather pathetic scrabbling, Clarke reached over and yanked the zipper into place for him.

He looked as though he were about to say something then, maybe a thank-you, but at that exact moment, Raven pulled up on the other side of Clarke with a testy expression on her face. "I'm going to kill those two."

Her backwards gesture was unnecessary. Clarke could hear the childish bickering between Monty and Jasper from where she was. "Just make sure I'm off the island first; I don't want to get dragged down in the murder charges with you."

"Sure thing, chief," Raven said with a lazy salute. Her brown ponytail had gone limp in the heavy heat, and sweat beaded along her brow.

Finn turned off down the street he'd pointed out earlier, and Clarke wrestled with the stainless steel trunk until the wheels managed to remove themselves from the cracks between the paving stones on the road. She glanced back to see just how far behind the two other boys had fallen, but they had caught up after Monty had jabbed Jasper under the ribs and then raced away to escape Jasper's reaching hands.

Out of breath, they passed her, tossing her innocent grins before taking off again as Jasper flicked Monty's ear. Glaring after them, Clarke called, "Watch the equipment, guys! If you break any of it, so help me God - "

"We'll be careful," Jasper shouted in reply.

Raven, seeing them go by, reached out and smacked Jasper upside the head in passing. "You've got my oxygen tanks in there."

"Extra super careful," Monty said.

In bursts of activity and the odd quiet moments when Jasper and Monty weren't either flicking or nudging or ticking each other off, they somehow made it to the Okeanos Lab without anything breaking or Clarke blowing her top.

The building stood out from the stereotypically white-washed Greek buildings around it because it was made from a pale, sandy brick. The low roof sported a number of satellite dishes, which was one of the reasons the Atlantis Mission had chosen the lab as their operations center. By the time Clarke wheeled up the narrow path to the front door, Finn had already retrieved the work visas and passports from his backpack to gain entrance to the facility.

The security guard at the door seemed satisfied with the evidence presented to him, so he buzzed them in and the team pushed through the heavy doors into a small entrance way.

A man appeared from around a corner, a lab coat slung over his shoulders. His dark hair was cut close to his head. He approached the group. "Hello," he said, surprisingly American. "I'm Nathan Miller, Senior Researcher with Okeanos. I'll be supervising your work in the facilities."

Raven's eyebrows shot up as she took him in. Turning to Clarke, she muttered, "He can supervise me any day."

Clarke rolled her eyes. She stepped forward and held out her hand. "I'm Clarke Griffin. This is my team."

Raven cleared her throat and batted Clarke's hand aside. A blinding smile appeared on her face. "And I'm Raven. It's nice to meet you."

Finn snuck a glance at Raven, a fleeting expression of disappointment running across his features before he said, "I'm Finn. We spoke over the phone . . . ?"

"Of course," Miller replied, a warm grin appearing on his lips. "We've arranged for you to use one of the smaller labs. Still fully functional, but given a team of your size, we couldn't displace any of the other organizations from the larger research labs. If you'll follow me, I'll take you there now."

"That'd be great," Finn answered, cutting off Raven's undoubtedly flirtatious response. She gave him a look that could cut through lead, but he pretended not to notice.

Miller headed off down one of the halls branching off from the sparse entryway, trailing the five teammates. Having worked in the same lab for almost a year, they didn't miss the opportunity to check out the quality of the new lab. The pale halls were well-lit, and the wired glass windows set into the thick steel doors revealed large, sophisticated research spaces.

As Miller walked, he explained how the lab was one of the best in the Meditteranean for oceanographic research due to the nature of the island's creation. Clarke had done her homework, so his explanation of how the island was formed by frequent volcanic activity was old news. Jasper and Monty seemed to be enjoying it, however, so she didn't say anything.

Finally, Miller stopped at a door marked with the number 153. He unearthed a key from one of his pockets and unlocked the door before handing the key over to Finn. "So this is it. There are Greek and English labels on everything, so you shouldn't have too hard a time figuring out your way around. Best of luck."

He began to walk away, but Raven called after him. "Will we be seeing you again?"

Clarke thought it was pretty self-evident that she meant if  _she_ would be seeing him again, but Miller apparently hadn't caught onto that. He smiled good-naturedly. "I'll check back in tomorrow."

Raven waited for him to turn a corner before she let out a long breath. "God, I could climb him like a tree."

"Raven!" Clarke exclaimed in surprise. Finn's expression turned stony, but he disguised it by opening the door to the lab and stepping in. He set his case down on one of the lab benches a little too hard than necessary.

"Too bad we've got work to do," Monty said jauntily, wheeling his case past Raven and into the lab. "I would love to see that."

"Monty," Clarke groaned.

Raven narrowed her eyes and followed Monty in. She tossed her leather jacket - which she had taken in spite of the oven-like climate of the island - onto the table beside Finn's case. "And just what is that supposed to mean?"

"You're batting for the same team," Jasper said. "If you catch my drift."

Clarke, being the last one in, shut the door behind her just as Raven declared, "Miller isn't gay."

Jasper and Monty exchanged sympathetic looks before shaking their heads. "So,  _so_  gay," Monty said consolingly. 

Raven's mouth dropped open before she turned to look at Clarke. "Is Miller gay?"

Clarke sighed and placed her trunk on another of the lab benches. Her fingers went to the clasps and made quick work of opening them. "I'm not getting in the middle of this."

The argument continued in the background as Clarke unloaded the series of laptops that contained the scans of hundreds of maps, tidal data tracing back a hundred and fifty years, and report after report on sailors lost at sea claiming they saw an island that wasn't on any map. In spite of all the theoretical evidence they'd collected indicating that Atlantis was somewhere near the island of Santorini, Clarke was plagued with the sudden onset of a crippling doubt.

If she was wrong . . . If she'd made the wrong choice about Santorini, she would have to admit defeat and head back to med school. After a whole year spent with nothing solid to show for it, there was no way they would ever find another sane organization that would agree to back them.

And what then? Would she just forget about the stories her father told her, the picture she had painted in her head and displayed like a shrine?

Clarke looked down to see that her hands were shaking. Swallowing her panic, she clenched them into fists and sucked in a long, deep breath. She turned around to address the rest of her team, shoving the worries from her mind.

"Set up shop," she said. "We have to be ready for tonight."

Raven hauled her case up onto the table opposite Clarke and whipped out the body-suit she had designed specifically for her. She tossed it over to Clarke, who caught it deftly with one hand. It weighed a good ten or fifteen pounds, but Clarke had been training for long enough that she didn't notice it when she put it on anymore.

"Sorry we couldn't get the oxygen filtration system up and running," Raven said, as she grabbed the oxygen tank from Jasper's trunk. "Once you reach the ruins by boat and get in the water, you'll have around five hours of air."

"If we've got the right place, that should be enough." Clarke checked her watch. It was nearing four in the afternoon. The full moon would be up by eight or nine, which was when she hoped to set off on the hour-long boat ride to the drop site. That meant they had four hours to get every last piece of equipment set up and tested.

They had a lot of work to do.

\- - - 

The ride down the cable car was the longest trip Clarke had ever taken. The black suit clung to her skin, and it felt too tight, like it was crushing the air from her lungs. Her hair was tied back in a slick ponytail so it wouldn't get in her face once she set off. Raven was riding with her, carrying the oxygen tank over her shoulder with an ease that belied years working in her father's chop shop and heavy-lifting that had left her perpetually nimble with heavy equipment. Dressed in her leather jacket and a pair of jean shorts, she lounged against the interior railing of the cabin, admiring the view.

She noticed Clarke watching her and rolled her eyes. "Stop freaking out."

"I'm not freaking out."

"You're freaking out." She set the oxygen tank on the ground as they neared the bottom of the cliff. At the far end of the dock, a small white motorboat waited for Clarke to pilot it out onto the black waters of the Aegean. Finn had arranged for it, managing as always the business aspect of the mission.

A flash of static crackled through Clarke's headpiece and Monty's voice came through. He was sitting back at the lab with the rest of the team, monitoring the pressure fronts and weather alerts in case something came up while Clarke was at sea. "Your heart rate's up twenty percent."

In the nearly-empty cabin, Raven heard what Monty had said loud and clear. She gave Clarke a knowing smirk. "Told you."

Clarke licked her lips and shook out her shoulders - as if it did anything to help her nerves. "I'll be fine once I get out on the water."

The cable car came to a stop at the bottom of the cliff and Raven clapped Clarke on the arm before slinging the oxygen tank up again and getting out of the car. Clarke was quick to follow, readjusting the strap of her waterproof bag on her shoulder. It contained a range of medical supplies from bandages to a poultice made from seaweed, along with a camera to take photographic evidence of the site.

Clarke looked up at the sky. The full moon shone out from a cloudless sky, surrounded by the emerging lights of stars. Having grown up in New York City, she hadn't realized just how much she was missing out on because of light pollution. In a semi-defeatist tone, she thought,  _If I don't find Atlantis, at least I'll have had a nice view_.

Raven was waiting by the boat. She set the oxygen tank safely in the on-deck storage compartment, then turned back to Clarke. Without warning, she jumped forward and wrapped her arms around her. Raven's impact knocked the air out of her lungs, but she hugged her back just as tightly.

"Stay safe," Raven instructed firmly. "Or so help me, I'll kick your ass from here to next week."

Nervous as she was, Clarke couldn't contain her laugh. "Don't worry, I will."

Raven pulled back and nodded. "Good. Then get going."

In a mocking imitation of Raven, Clarke saluted her with two fingers, then climbed into the boat. The waves lapped against the plastic siding, but the sound was soon drowned out as Clarke turned on the engine and the boat roared to life.

Then, she punched the throttle and the boat leaped forward. It skipped across the waves for a few seconds before she got used to the controls and the ride smoothed out. From memory, Clarke plugged in the site's coordinates into the boat's GPS and adjusted her course. The day's heat still hovered over the water and the sea spray was a refreshing respite.

Santorini soon began to creep into the distance behind her, with only the wide open sea in front of her. The waters were dark, foreboding, but Clarke had never been afraid of the ocean. Maybe it was because of the stories her father had told her, but she had always respected the sea, and now that she was out there in the middle of it, she felt a small smile slip onto her face.

After almost fifteen minutes on the water, Monty's voice crackled over the comm. device and started asking about the conditions, how his voice was coming through, and whether she'd run into any problems yet. When everything seemed to be in order, he started in on an unending monologue about how Miller had just dropped in to have a conversation with Finn and how Raven had looked about ready to explode.

Seeing as he was running on his own steam, Clarke didn't pay him much attention. Something about the combination of his mindless babble and the sensation of the boat gliding across the waves sent her into a trance-like state, far away from empty grants and lost funds.

It was only when Monty's voice cut off abruptly in a shock of static that Clarke snapped to attention. What she had just thought was the remainder of the humidity from the day had turned into a thick fog. Clarke couldn't see ten feet in front of her. The moonlight trickled through the mist in illuminated streaks, and sounds echoed off the dense cloud and bounced back at her, twisted and ghostly.

Suddenly, Monty's voice was back, panicking in Clarke's ear. "What was that?"

Clarke's heart was racing, and a wild grin was tugging at the corners of her mouth. "I don't know, but I'm going to take it as a good sign."

"Clarke, we lost you," Monty yelped. "How is that good?"

And he faded away again. Clarke turned down the forward thrust until the boat was idling in the water. Her eyes flickered over to her coordinates. According to the GPS, she was there - wherever "there" was.

There was a grating sound against the bottom of the boat, and a moment later, something surfaced out of the water to her right. With the fog, it was impossible to tell what it was before it returned beneath the waves. Clarke's heart leapt into her throat.

The sound repeated itself, this time making the boat shudder violently in the water. It was followed by a hollow, unearthly screech rose from the waves, like the cries of a dying child.

On Clarke's left, just beyond the side of the boat, a slick, black form rose from the waves, with a head shaped vaguely like a bottle and attached to a long neck. What Clarke could see of it had to be at least twelve feet tall. It opened its jaws to reveal three sets of gleaming, needle-like teeth. On the back of its neck, a line of narrow quills rose up, clattering like a rattlesnake's tail. The world was still for an interminable second.

Then, the dying scream exploded from the creature's mouth. Clarke slammed her hand into the throttle just as the creature lunged forward. There was a sharp pain in her arm, but the sensation was lost almost immediately in the sudden jerk of the boat as it collided with something solid.

The adrenaline pulsing through Clarke's system made everything jagged and crystalline. The fog was thinner here, and Clarke could see enough of her surroundings to tell that they had landed on a sandy beach. Hearing the unnatural cries of the creature as it scrabbled at the end of the boat, Clarke didn't think; she grabbed her bag and hurled herself over the windscreen of the boat onto the sand.

She raced up the beach until she collapsed in a heaving pile. Spots floated across her vision from lack of air. Still, as her head rolled to the side, she caught a glimpse of a forest of exotic trees, a broken column, the wreck of an old rowboat disappearing into the fog.

The world dimmed to black, and she was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anyways, please comment/kudos if you liked it!
> 
>  
> 
> shitty way to end a chapter, i know


	3. 2 : atlantia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke is not alone on Atlantis (but it would have been a whole lot easier if she were).

When Clarke woke up, the sky was filled with the purple and orange streaks of dawn. Her head ached, and her arm was throbbing steadily. Blinking rapidly, she rolled onto her back and stared at the wispy trailing clouds above her. There was a soft buzzing in her ear: her headpiece had apparently survived the crash, though she didn't know whether it would still work.

She pushed herself into a sitting position with her elbows, the strain making her arm sting. Glancing down, Clarke saw that the sleeve of her bodysuit had been shredded; torn skin was crusted with blood, and it was welling up anew. Closing her eyes, she saw the brief flash of the sea-monsters spiny teeth imprinted on her eyelids. So it had all been real. She wracked her brain to see if the monster matched any known creature, like a shark, or maybe an eel, but she came up with nothing. Since she couldn't very well leave the island with her arm in such a state and her boat smashed against the rocks, however, she decided to leave the inquiry for later when the monster might actually prove a problem.

Instead, Clarke moved to inspect the wound. After poking at it for a few minutes, she determined that nothing important had been severed, but it had cut fairly deep into the muscle. The best course of action would have been to wash it out and apply antiseptic and a bandage, but it was pressed full of fine sand that Clarke knew she wouldn't be able to get out with only a squeeze bottle and one hand. So she tried forget about the cut, and turned her focus to the unknown land she was stranded on.

Maybe it would be a lie to call it "unknown"; after the sea monster and the fog and the last coordinate readings on the boat, Clarke was fairly certain that she'd made it.

She was on Atlantis.

In the early morning light, the sand glinted, so smooth and clean it almost looked like snow. The waves lapping against the shore were not the dark, ominous ones of the night before, but were instead a cool turquoise, as calm and motionless as the nearly-cloudless sky above. The fog had burned off entirely, revealing an endless sea and a stretching coastline that curved lazily into the distance to her right.

To Clarke's left, the beach cut short a hundred meters down, interrupted by a large outcrop of black rock. Pieces of that same rock littered the coastline, growing out of the ground like jagged teeth. Following the trail of rocks down the beach, Clarke saw that her boat had collided with one of those same rocks - if she'd steered a few yards the the left or right of it, she would have landed on harmless sand and would have been able to sail away again. As it was, a huge hole gaped in the hull of the boat, letting in a rush of seawater every time the waves ebbed.

Clarke sat in a stunned silence for a minute or two. She had made it. Months of research and planning had finally paid off.  _She had made it._

The quiet was promptly broken by a shock of static in her ear. It cut off as soon as it came, before she heard it again and it resolved itself into a word: "Clarke!"

She scrabbled to turn on her microphone. "Monty?"

"Oh God," Monty said. The connection was clear enough now for his sigh of relief to come through. "Clarke, where are you? I think your tracker is broken."

Clarke instantly looked down at the blinking device attached to her waist, which was visibly unharmed. She unclipped it and checked it for any fractures, but it was fine. "The tracker's live."

There was a brief pause as Monty typed something in on the other end. Then, an even longer one, as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. After almost a full minute, he cleared his throat and said, "You're fuzz on a map."

"What?"

"The technical term is signal dispersion, but I've never seen it like this before," Monty said in an undertone, like he was trying not to scare her. "A blip in the magnetic field makes the signal fuzzy, typically giving it a radius of up to a hundred meters at most, but I don't know what's going on with you. Clarke, your signal is all over the Aegean. The radius has gotta be at least a few miles."

There was more frantic typing. Monty monologued as he went. "None of the diagnostics help. Are you sure your tracker isn't cracked? Maybe it's wet or something."

Clarke checked again, but the action only confirmed what she already knew. "It's working fine."

There was silence on the other end.

"What does it mean for the mission?" Clarke asked quietly.

"It means I don't know where you are," Monty replied. He was trying to hide it, but Clarke could hear the tone of panic in his voice. "And unless I get it fixed, I won't be able to help you get back. God knows where you ended up!"

"I'm on Atlantis."

Monty slammed something down onto his table and let out a hiss as hot coffee spilled over his hand. "You're there? I have to wake everybody up!"

"Please tell me they at least checked into the hotel," Clarke said. "You know how I feel about you guys working yourselves into the ground."

Monty hesitated. "Um, okay. Dialing them up now. Boop boop boop, beep beep."

"Monty!"

"Well, I wasn't about to send them home! They were worried. Our captain disappeared into a technological vortex." Monty didn't sound apologetic in the least. There were a few clicks as he transferred from the stationary mic to a headpiece so he could walk around and wake the others up. Clarke could hear soft thumps as he gently kicked Jasper in the ribs. "Besides, I didn't want to be alone. Watching a blank screen for a night is not the most riveting work."

Clarke sighed. "Fine. But now that I'm here, you'd better send them home tonight. They need to relax."

"Hear you loud and clear, captain," Monty answered cheekily.

"Is that Clarke?" Finn asked in the background, voice groggy.

"Yeah, I found her.  _On Atlantis_."

"What?" Raven shrieked, sounding even further away. When she next spoke, her voice was right in Clarke's ear, so she assumed that she'd grabbed the stationary mic. "Don't screw with me, Griffin."

"Alright, I'm in Fiji," Clarke teased. Apparently she wasn't very good at it, because Raven was silent. Clarke rolled her eyes. "Obviously I'm not in Fiji. Do you even know where Fiji is? That would be impossible."

"Stick to science, Clarke. Humor is not your forte," Raven said, but she sounded relieved more than annoyed. "Now tell me what it's like. No, wait, how did the suit hold up?"

Clarke looked down at the black, skin-tight material. "Pretty well. Didn't stand up against teeth, though."

"Teeth?" said Monty and Raven in unison.

"I was attacked by some sort of sea-serpent type thing. And tell Jasper that I haven't gotten around to cleaning the cut yet but I plan on using his valerian and willow analgesic when I do."

"Clarke, I'm still a little stuck on the sea-serpent part," Raven interrupted.

"Welcome to the club," Clarke replied. "But there are more important things to discuss at the moment."

"Like what?" This time it was Jasper asking the questions. From the small scuffle around the microphone, Clarke assumed he'd tried to nudge Raven away with minimal success.

"For a start, I crashed my boat. I can't get off this island." Clarke got to her feet, feeling as she stretched the numerous bruises and strains from the crash. Her ribs, which had collided with the steering wheel, hurt when she breathed, but she was sure they weren't broken. Her feet sunk into the fine sand as she started walking towards the surf to inspect her boat.

"For a whole month," Monty added. The dread in his voice was unmistakable. "Will you be able to make it that long?"

Clarke wasn't as worried as Monty was - and he, admittedly, worried a fair bit more than a normal person - so she shrugged to herself and climbed aboard the boat. "There are olive trees. And some figs, I think, but I haven't gotten close enough to check yet."

She started rummaging through the containers, hoping to find anything at all useful. Most of the supplies had been flung off the boat when one of the lids had sprung open and sent ropes, sample bags, and analysis kits into the retreating tide. In the end, all she came up with was a fish knife and a screwdriver.

"You can't survive a month on olives and figs, Clarke," Monty said, evidently irritated by her lack of interest.

She wasn't about to apologize for it, either. She had waited  _her whole life_  for this moment. She still had her camera, a laptop, and a functioning communications device. It was all she needed to prove to the world that Atlantis was real, that her father wasn't crazy.

"Clarke, are you listening to me?" Monty demanded indignantly. "You might not be able to survive the month."

Finally, Clarke got fed up with his negative, albeit logical comments. "There's nothing we can do about it anyway. And this is to all of you: I can't get off this island for a month, no matter what. So you might as well help me out instead of telling me how screwed I am, because I know that already and I've gotten past it."

There was a long silence on the other end. Then, Clarke heard Finn's faint voice: "Whatever you need, Clarke."

"Me too," Raven said, just as Jasper muttered, "Alright."

Eventually, Monty sighed and acquiesced. "I'm not going to stop thinking about it, but I'll try to not say it out loud."

"That's good enough for me," Clarke said, hopping off the boat with her new weapons in hand. She went to retrieve her bag, which she had left up on the beach near the treeline.

When she got there, however, her bag was nowhere to be seen. She looked around her, up and down the beach, but it was gone. At her feet, she could still see the faint imprint of where her bag used to be. Which meant that someone had moved it while she was out by the boat.

Someone who wasn't her.

A brief pang of worry shot through Clarke's chest before she smothered it and took a deep, calming breath. After a second, she said, "I'm not alone."

"What's that supposed to mean?" asked Raven, before Finn shushed her. There was the sound of something heavy hitting the table - one of their research books, undoubtedly, tabbed and bookmarked from overuse. Having finished half of a law degree, Finn had an uncanny ability to find just about anything in a book.

"Describe the island to me," Finn commanded, suddenly very close to the microphone.

Clarke looked around her and searched for words. Eventually, she came up with, "Idyllic. And above water."

"Above water?" Monty interjected. "I thought you were on Atlantis. The  _sunken island_ Atlantis."

"Some of the mythology say it didn't sink, it just disappeared. You should know that; didn't you read my memo?"

"Does anyone read your memos?" Jasper replied, before dragging the mic closer and saying, "Now the flora."

"Like I said, olives and figs. They might be a bit bigger than normal, but you're the expert. There's also a lot of low lying brush, some sort of grass. It all looks normal." Clarke cast her eyes about, looking for something to actually help Jasper, but there was nothing out of the ordinary. It looked like any Greek island plucked off a map.

"Have you seen any animals yet?"

"Apart from the sea-monster, no," Clarke replied. "But I'm pretty sure it wasn't anything you'd know. The closest thing to describing it would be a dragon."

"European or Asian?"

Clarke floundered for a moment. "Tolkien."

Jasper sat back from the microphone with a "huh" and Monty took over again. "So what's the plan, chief?"

Clarke was about to answer him when she felt something prick the back of her neck. Her throat closed up and her mind went blank.

"Drop your weapons and turn around," a deep voice commanded from behind her, and the tip of what was evidently a blade dug deeper into her skin, drawing blood. Clarke debated not following the man's orders, but given the weapon positioned dangerously close to her jugular, she didn't risk being defiant. The fish knife and screwdriver fell to the sand.

Swallowing tightly, Clarke pivoted on her heels, wary of the blade. Her mind reeled, a million questions running through her head: how was someone else here? How could the stranger, whoever he was, speak English? Most importantly, what god did she piss off to have luck this bad?

Once she turned around, she found herself at the end of a bronze sword, which now fit just underneath her chin. She followed the line of the blade up a tan, muscled arm, lined with thick blue swirls of ink, to see a handsome and very angry man.

His dark eyes were unyielding, boring into hers. His jaw was clenched, causing a muscle to hop in his cheek, just above the end of a whorled tattoo that ran down the side of his neck and below the collar of his belted leather vest. Heavy black curls fell across his forehead and freckles were dusted across his nose. He was undoubtedly the most attractive man who'd ever wanted to kill Clarke.

The sword knocked into her jaw, held by an unwavering hand. "Speak your name."

Clarke's mouth was dry; she licked her lips and said, "Clarke Griffin."

"Where did you come from?" he demanded, voice low. His expression was as unforgiving as the sea.

Clarke didn't know how to answer his question, so she shook her head. Monty's voice was babbling in her ear, demanding what was going on, who she was talking to, but Clarke could hardly hear him. Absently, she noted her knapsack sitting by his feet - he was the one who'd taken it. "I don't - "

"Is that your boat?" Without looking away from her, he gestured behind him to the wrecked vessel. It was then that Clarke realized how out of place she looked, bloody and clad only in a sand-covered wet suit. To a man who looked like he'd just stepped off the set of  _300_ , she likely wasn't winning any brownie points for attire.

"Yes," she said. "I was going to - "

Her voice cut off as the tip of the blade bit into her neck. The man's eyes narrowed. "Just answer my questions. Speak out of turn again and I will slit your throat."

Heart racing, Clarke went to nod when she remembered the presence of the blade and instead made an affirmative sound. She had no idea what was going on, but she knew arguing with him was going to be futile and, evidently, fatal.

The noise was apparently understandable, as the man dropped the sword an inch or so to allow her to speak once more. "This time you will answer me. Where are you from?'

"Santorini."

Without hesitation, the man said, "You are not Greek. You speak the tongue of the West."

"So do you!" Clarke protested, then clamped her mouth shut.

The blade flicked up again, making Clarke stand on her toes so she didn't get cut. The man visibly debated killing her before he repeated, "You are not Greek. Tell me where you are truly from."

"I'm American," Clarke answered, feeling a flood of relief at still being alive. "But I came from Santorini. I'm a part of a mission searching for - "

"Gods above," the man growled impatiently, hiking the blade up again. " _Do not speak_."

Clarke struggled to swallow without bleeding, but she felt a trickle of hot liquid drip down her throat all the same.

"You must leave this island. We do not want you here, nor your corrupted people," he told her, completely unsympathetic to her plight. "Do you understand me?"

"Can't . . . go," Clarke said between breaths. "My boat."

"That is not of my concern, Clarke Griffin," the man replied, a small smirk quirking the corner of his mouth, the first sign of true emotion she had seen out of him yet. "I will watch you swim."

"Can't swim," Clarke lied.

"Then I will watch you drown."

The buzzing of Monty's voice rocketed up a notch as he heard the word drown from the other end, but Clarke didn't say anything. The longer time ticked away, the more certain she was that she wasn't about to let him kill her when she'd only just realized her father's work. A litany of  _I came so close, I came so close_  ricocheted around her chest in time with her heartbeat. There was no way it could end this way. There was no way the world was cruel enough to give her everything she'd ever dreamed of and then rip it straight from her hands.

Clarke closed her eyes, sucked in a deep breath, then made a snap decision and threw herself sideways, dodging the tip of his sword and snatching the bag away from his feet. She didn't know how she was going to escape him, but it turned out to be a non-issue when he collided with her, knocking her into the sand with his whole body.

There was a brief, gritty struggle as he muscled her body around so that her back was on the sand. Her bag was flung out across the beach as Clarke swung her fist out to catch him in the jaw, which snapped jarringly shut, but it didn't seem to deter him in the least. Two seconds later, with Clarke at a lost as to how it had happened, he had her arms pinned over her head, pressing her wrists into the sand.

His other arm rested painfully against her chest, holding her against the ground with the full force of his weight. He was lying close enough against her that she could feel his racing heartbeat reverberating across the space between them to match hers. They both gasped for air, Clarke's pants tinged with desperation. She hadn't known what she'd expected to happen, but now that he had a solid grip on her, she knew there was no way she was breaking it - his hands held her wrists like iron manacles.

"Did you really think that would work?" the man said, voice edged in arrogant triumph. He readjusted his position, sliding his knee between her legs so he could ease up on the arm across Clarke's chest. "You are on Atlantia, Clarke Griffin. Surely you know what that means?"

"Yeah," Clarke hissed, feeling a bit of Raven-like irony bubble up. "I'm fucked. Wonderful."

The man looked confused - Clarke was pretty sure it was because of the expletive - but before he could say anything else, there came over the trees a long, clear note. A horn, signalling what, Clarke couldn't know.

Her captor knew, however. His head shot up, the look of victory fading from his eyes as he scanned above the trees. He was waiting for the second call, which came seconds later and faded just as quickly into the waves.

"What was that?" The words fell from Clarke's mouth before she could hold them back.

The man heaved in a deep breath and didn't reply. He considered her for a moment, like he was eyeing a bomb that might go off at any second. Suddenly, he jumped to his feet and dragged Clarke up with him, wrists still tightly clamped together.

He pulled his belt loose from around his waist and used it to tie her hands together, binding them well enough that Clarke couldn't feel a single bit of give. His vest flapped open to reveal a coarse linen shirt as he bent down to grab her bag and his discarded sword - which he slid into the scabbard at his hip - with his free hand.

He started to lead her away, but Clarke dug her heels into the beach and repeated, "What was that?"

The man turned to face her, giving her a look that could cut through lead. "That was a horn. I will assume you know what a horn is."

He gave the end of the belt a jerk, bringing Clarke stumbling forward. It wasn't taunting or even particularly unkind, but simply a means to get her moving again. He turned back to his path, taking purposeful strides up the beach. Apparently, when they reached the treeline, he decided to give her one last bit of information.

"The horn is not what I would be concerned with, if I were you," he said. "Not if my life were on the line."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> moment of silence for my last fully written chapter.  
> moment over. let me know what you thought of this new chapter!


	4. 3 : bound and tied

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke gets dragged along for the ride.

The man led her through the clustered olive trees, impatient with Clarke's wary trek through the brush. The grasses rose past her knees at some points, tracing like alien fingers across her legs, clinging onto her to save her from the fate the Atlantian had in mind for her. The olive trees were thick with unripe fruit, and the prematurely fallen littered the dry soil around their bases. The man plucked a few off a low-hanging branch and put one in his mouth.

Clarke had a hard time taking it all in. All around her were the sounds of a waking world, filling the air with bird calls and the rustling of leaves. The ground began to slope upward, gradually at first, then becoming steeper, and each step sent small trickles of dusty earth running down the hill. The man leading her forward seemed to know just where to step by heart, despite the lack of a path. After Clarke's first misstep, when she accidentally shoved her foot into some kind of burrow, she resolved to follow his trail of footprints up the hill, despite the fact that his longer strides placed the footsteps just outside of her comfortable range.

Even as the bright, exotic world developed around her, Clarke found that she couldn't articulate any of it. It could have been any island in the Aegean, but something subtle, something hard to put into words was different, like everything was vibrating at a slightly higher frequency. The colors were more vibrant, the scents more potent, combining in a heady rush that made Clarke's skin tingle.

Monty had fallen silent at her ear, perhaps having realized that Clarke wasn't going to reply. It was more likely that he'd just turned off the microphone; the idea that Monty would stop ranting about Clarke's inability to answer him after only an hour seemed highly improbable.

Clarke desperately wanted to tell the others what had happened. She could hardly wrap her mind around it herself - she had been captured by an Atlantian warrior. As much as her sense of self-preservation screamed at her that it wasn't a good thing, Clarke's misplaced sense of adventure was soaring, which was the only thing keeping her quiet and compliant. Not only had she found the lost island of Atlantis, but also the still-surviving Atlantian society.

All of a sudden, the trees fell away, the ground turning into hard black rock. It seemed to be some sort of ridge, cutting through the forest like a dark scar. The suddenly clear horizon revealed a small, wooded mountain in the distance. Clarke had little time to marvel - the man pressed on, pulling her resolutely behind him.

Above her, the sun glistened in a cloudless blue basin; its rays caught on her black wetsuit and Clarke soon felt beads of sweat appearing on her skin, causing the suit to cling even tighter. Flyaway hairs pasted themselves to her forehead, and the bite on her arm began to sting. Without realizing it, Clarke started to slow down, the blood loss and dehydration swarming before her eyes.

Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. She tugged back on the belt, causing the Atlantian to turn his head. "How much farther?"

The man looked at her stonily. There was a red mark along his jaw from where Clarke had punched him. Finally, he said, "Many miles yet."

He started off again, but Clarke pulled him back with a jerk of her hands. "Is there any water nearby?"

The Atlantian turned his eyes to the barren stone directly at their feet, then back up at Clarke with a disbelieving look. "What do you think?"

Clarke's head began to pound, both with anger and from the heat soaking into her skull from the sun above.  _Sarcasm? Really?_  she sighed internally, cursing her luck once more. "I can't keep going."

"I think you can, Clarke Griffin," the man said. Clarke wondered if he knew that was her full name. From the way he said it, she couldn't be sure - maybe he thought it was all a part of her first. Either way, it sent an odd shiver down her spine. 

Not waiting for another word out of Clarke, he kept walking, pulling her along resolutely and ignoring her protests. They were soon past the seam of rock and back into the denser woods beyond. The trees were mixed in with others Clarke couldn't recognize by the leaves, and the ground was softer.

Clarke could tell before the ground even began to slope that they were on the other side of the ridge. The earth was dark and wet, and when the man reached out to brush aside a long fern, a rabbit - a big one, nearly the size of a house cat - hopped off. The heavy leaves above her caught in the moisture, and Clarke felt rivulets of sweat running down her back.

Her breaths were labored, despite the easier downhill progress. She started to see fuzzy black spots in the center of her vision, obscuring her view of her captor for a few moments before she blinked them away. In the sunlight that glinted through the foliage, she could see sweat sticking his dark hair to the back of his neck, but he walked on without even slowing.

The first time Clarke slipped, it was more of a stumble. She didn't lift her foot high enough and her toes caught on a rock. She skidded five feet on the damp earth before regaining her balance.

The second time, there was no rock. She just misplaced her foot and felt her legs go right out from under her. Her head slammed back against the ground, a ringing sound filling her ears.

The world dimmed momentarily as heat exhaustion overcame her, like someone had turned off the lights. Clarke winced, feeling an ache spreading down the back of her neck from where her head had collided with the dirt.  _This is just perfect_ , she thought.

Then the light came glaring back. The sun beat down on her face, as though it was resolving some kind of personal vendetta against her. She shut her eyes against the sudden intrusion, trying to sit up. Her bound hands met hot rock, nothing like the soft earth she'd fallen on.

Her eyes snapped open again, this time focusing in front of her. To her immediate left, there was a calm, clear pool. A mere twenty feet beyond that, there was a sheer black rockface, which soared upwards into the sky. Clarke moved her head back to look, but her neck twinged and she abandoned the effort.

She moved to get to her feet, but two hands clamped onto her shoulders and stilled her. "Do not move."

"I can't even move now?" Clarke demanded.

The man slid into view by her side, crouching on the mossy ground to her right. He looked at her seriously and gestured to the pool. "The water is deceptively deep, and the current strong. You would not want to go over."

"Go over where?" Clarke asked, before turning her gaze out in front of her and finding nothing but the open sky. She traced the sky down to the edge of the pool, where the water seemed to bubble out and disappear. Her eyes saucered. "Is this a waterfall?"

"Yes." The man shrugged and his mouth quirked up in the barest hint of a smile. "English is a particularly quaint language. The water falls through the air, and thus they call it a waterfall."

It was Clarke's turn to give him a derisive look. His face closed off, and he got to his feet in a single smooth motion. He pointed at the water and said, "Drink. I will keep you from falling."

Clarke felt the overwhelming desire to argue, but he was finally giving her what she wanted, so she didn't. Feeling his hand on the collar of her wetsuit, she cupped her hands in the water and took a greedy mouthful. She did it a few more times before she sat back and nodded up at him.

"You must come from a weak line, Clarke Griffin," he muttered, half to himself.

"What?"

"That you cannot stand a hike up a small  _koriphi_  without collapsing very telling of your bloodline," he remarked."I had to carry you here and you did not stir once."

Clarke got to her feet, nearly sliding backwards into the pool before the man reached out and tugged her onto safe ground. Angrily, she yanked her hands back from him and said, "Well, I'm sorry, I don't make a habit out of climbing ridges."

The Atlantian's brow creased, but he didn't comment. Instead, he nodded his head in the direction of the forest behind him, which crept up on the rock-bound stream like a silent guardian. "We must continue. The day lengthens."

Clarke eyed the trees and the sun's creeping path across the sky, and sighed an agreement. The man took the belt back into his hand and started leading her into the woods, apparently not deigning to discuss the situation with her further. Just before Clarke followed, she glanced out over the edge of the precipice.

For a moment, she caught a glimpse of a sprawling city, clay rooftops, whitewashed walls, spread out like gleaming coins along the shore of a calm bay. They were the exact opposite of ruins, which was the most Clarke had expected of Atlantis before that morning. Then the trees obscured her view and she turned her attention to the ground in front of her.

The next part of the trip was made in silence. Clarke was too preoccupied with keeping her footing to remark upon her surroundings, though she promised herself that if the man didn't kill her, she would make sure to come back, if just for Jasper's sake.

As the slope began to ease, the speaker at her ear crackled to life, making Clarke jump. She soon heard Monty's voice, calm enough that Clarke was certain Jasper had made him go out for shots. While Monty didn't drink as a rule, sometimes the situation required it, and this was definitely one of those situations. He breathed heavily into the microphone.

"You're not alone," he stated. "And there's someone with you now, so you can't speak. But I'm assuming you're still breathing because you still have a pulse."

Clarke frowned at the comment, wondering how he knew that, before he continued, "Raven placed a pulse monitor over your heart. So here's the plan: you hold your breath to make your pulse spike, and we record it. One spike for yes, two for no. Got it?"

Clarke held in her breath for as long as she could while maneuvering the downhill terrain before letting it out and waiting. There was a long pause.

Then, Monty was back, sounding supremely annoyed. "So apparently that's not an accurate way to measure heart rate, says Mr. Biology Degree over there, given our actual technology on you right now. According to the  _botanical specialist_  - " Monty's tone was sharp, indicating his mistrust of Jasper's apparent medical wisdom, " - the fluctuations of your heart rate are varied enough already that it's too inaccurate to gauge any answers from it. So if you have any other ideas, speak up - or don't, or whatever."

Clarke rolled her eyes, then, in the true spirit of adventure, tried to push her luck a little bit further. "Hey, Anger Issues Guy," she called out, hoping that Monty and the others were listening in. "Are we heading for the city?"

The man gave her a caustic look over his shoulder and picked up his pace a little. He muttered something under his breath that sounded vaguely like a Greek curse. Clarke glared at him momentarily, noting how his shirt stuck to his back, thin enough to reveal more of the inky blue swirls tracing across his skin. Her bag, which he'd taken from her back at the beach, was slung across his body, still zipped carefully shut.

"Okay, new topic," Clarke pressed on, "what's your name again? I didn't catch that with all the threatening and sword-pointing."

Monty began to think aloud at her ear. "You were at swordpoint? This means that their society clearly has the structural stability to engage in some form of commerce, or . . . or mining, and clearly have refined metallurgical skills if they're able to forge a blade, which indicates. . . ."

He eventually petered off, likely scribbling out jot notes for theories about the Atlantian civilization, but Clarke stopped paying attention when the man suddenly pulled up short and she had to avoid running into him. For a moment, she was worried that he was about to get angry and she would have to try and free her hands to fight him off - which wasn't exactly condusive to a good study of Atlantis - but he simply held up his hand, indicating for her to slow.

She peered around him and noticed that the trees were abruptly thinning, beyond which stretched an expanse of tall grass. There was a break in the grass off to the side, wide enough to be a road, though Clarke's vantage point wasn't good enough to be sure.

The man looked over his shoulder and fixed her with a serious look. "You say you are a scientist, Clarke Griffin. I hope this means you understand the concept of observation."

"Obviously - "

" _And_  the concept of rhetoric," he interrupted, giving her a scornful look. "You will only observe from here on. You will not speak, and you will answer no one but myself until we arrive at our destination."

Clarke cocked her head at him. "Yeah, where was that, again? You never did mention - "

He strode forward again, cutting off the end of her sentence. Hurrying to keep up, she let out a huff of breath, wondering if the observation of the city was really worth having to put up with the insufferable Atlantian. However, within five minutes of thinking those words, they stepped out of the grasses and onto the white stone path, made of hand-carved cobbles, and Clarke immediately took the thought back. She would endure a thousand copies of him to find out what was at the end of the road.

The first of the houses appeared a mile down the way. The sun-dried bricks were coated in a limestone paint that reflected the sun, and the broad patio at the front of the house was paved with pale stones. A small pool of still water sat at the center of the patio, and a small child, a boy of maybe five or six years, sat at its side with a stick in his hand. He seemed preoccupied with stirring up the algae at the bottom of the pool, not looking up as Clarke and her captor trudged down the road a mere thirty feet from where he played.

Clarke's heart began to pound roughly in her chest. She strained her neck to look back, watching the boy's dark-haired head until it disappeared behind the grass. It was all finally beginning to click that she was  _on Atlantis_. She was tied to an Atlantian warrior, and she had just walked past a little Atlantian boy, and she was about to enter an Atlantian city.

Clarke didn't believe in life after death; her father had been an atheist, and had enforced the notion of "this is the only life you have, so don't waste it" since she was a child. Still, she hoped that somehow, somewhere, her father knew where she was. Knew that she had made it, and that all his work had been worth it in the end.

It had all been worth it.

Clarke took in a deep breath and tried to slow her pulse.  _Focus on what's real, Clarke_ , her rational mind said, dismissing the wishful thinking.  _You can dream up nonsense when you've seen everything there is to see first._ _  
_

So Clarke turned her attention back to her surroundings, observing in silent awe as the city developed around them. After the first house, more began to crop up, until they lined the street, distanced from the road by the wide open-court patios that each possessed. Clarke recognized the style from an old encyclopedia her father had given her; modifications had been made over the millenia, but the style was still recognizably that of Ancient Greece.

Sometimes, a mother checking on her children would watch Clarke and the warrior pass in silence, or a servant stepping out to water a flower garden would glance up furtively before returning to his work. The sounds of conversation trickled down the patios, carrying on in both Greek and the occasional English word. Clarke could have even sworn she heard a couple conversing in fluent Italian.

She desperately wanted to know how they knew how to speak these languages - English, Italian, even Modern Greek should have been nowhere on this island, much less spoken by all. Then again, there wasn't even supposed to be an "all" left.

Clarke began to compile a list of questions she needed to ask the man, inquiries about every aspect of life on the island. Were the people schooled? Where did they retrieve the clay to build the tiles on their rooves, their pots, their art? After she'd seen quite a few women walking up and down the street, brushing past her with curious glances, she found herself wondering just what the gender roles were in this society - clearly they weren't what they used to be, as women had been relegated to the house and hardly left the house in polises like Athens and Corinth.

As they delved deeper into the city, more streets appeared, branching off the main road, which by now had widened into a broad avenue. The houses became more tightly packed, but increased in quality, some made from large stone blocks instead of fired brick.

An increasing number of women, ranging from late teens to five or six years Clarke's senior, greeted the man leading her. They would smile at him, or come up close and murmur something in his ear before casting Clarke a disapproving look and disappearing back into the crowd.

After maybe the fifteenth woman to do so vanished around a street corner, Clarke picked up her pace and caught up with her captor. He didn't look at  her, but he set his jaw, so Clarke knew that he'd noticed her.

"Popular with the ladies, I see," she said conversationally. "Should I give you some time alone next time? I know tugging along a prisoner can get in the way sometimes."

"Did I not instruct you to stay silent?" he replied coolly.

"Well, you said I would answer no one but you," Clarke said, "but in theory I was answering your unasked question of 'What does Clarke Griffin think about this?'"

"I was thinking no such question," he told her. He still hadn't looked at her yet.

"It doesn't matter." Clarke sidestepped a young girl, who was crouched on the ground to collect a spilled basket of apples. "You committed to an incomplete contract, therefore my interpretation is still a valid - "

He gave the belt a sharp tug, sending Clarke off-balance and making her slam into his shoulder. He held her there for a moment, looking down at her dispassionately. "Wordplay, is it? Do you think wordplay will save your life?"

Clarke didn't breathe for a moment, holding his gaze. Then she allowed a dose of venom into her voice and hissed, "If you think that the threat of death is going to make me obey you, you're wrong. The only reason I'm agreeing to this is because it benefits my study."

His expression didn't change, but there was a new edge to his words when he answered her. "And here I thought you were following me because I bound your hands and dragged you behind me."

Turning from her, he pointed across a large open courtyard. A fountain bubbled at the center, and people of all ages sat around its edge, talking or eating fruit or scooping water up to cool their faces. At the far side of the court, where the man was pointing, a grandiose building three-storeys tall occupied the entire length of the plaza. Doric columns spanned the front, and Clarke could see the wide front doors from where she stood, drawn open for the easy coming and going of the citizens of the city.

She felt the man's head dip towards her ear, but her eyes remained fixed to the edifice.

"That is our destination, Clarke Griffin," he said in a low voice. He pulled the cords tighter around her wrists, making her wince. "Perhaps the threat of death will be more effective when coming from my queen."

Full of false bravado, Clarke smirked and started forward, pulling her captor after her. "I guess we'll just have to see about that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for all the wonderful comments on the last few chapters, guys. i haven't replied to all of them yet, but i really appreciate you taking the time to let me know what you think!
> 
> there'll be a lot more talking next chapter (i ended up a bit description heavy on this one)
> 
> anyways, kudos and comment if you like it!


	5. 4 : thank god for med school

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dying man gives Clarke a chance to live.

It was almost like falling.

Clarke's heart was in her throat, and there was an empty feeling in the pit of her stomach, like she had just jumped off a cliff into open air. If Raven were around, she would undoubtedly have a sarcastic comment about how absolutely nuts Clarke was being.  _I've heard of choosing your own fate, but this is taking it a bit far, Griffin._

At the moment, however, it didn't matter how crazily she was acting, because she was making a point. It might not have been the best point, or even the most logical one, but she knew for sure and certain that she wasn't going to walk into that building looking scared or tired or frantic, even if she was definitely feeling all three.

Her companion, attached to her by the belt between them, was soon at her side again. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him give her a covert look, like he was wondering if she'd happened to have lost in the past thirty seconds but didn't want to say anything.

When he spoke, however, Clarke retracted her earlier thought immediately.

"You have a long way to go before you will be able to fool me, Clarke Griffin," he told her. "You fear death. You fear it at least as much as any of the others standing in this square, if not more. Save myself."

Clarke fixed him with vexed look. "Are you saying you're not afraid of death?"

"I have learned to slay my demons," he replied, taking on an arrogant tone. "And while one cannot slay death, I have killed and seen death take over life, and each time I do, I learn more about it. And when death comes for me, I will not be afraid, because I will know all I need to know, and I will know not to fear."

He gave her a superior look. "I have gotten the feeling that you are not faced with death as often as I."

"You've faced me with it at least three times today," Clarke shot back. They had made it halfway across the square, and their raised conversation was attracting some curious looks. "I think I'm getting used to it."

Bellamy brushed off her answer, and Clarke felt that, should she have not been there, he would have laughed out loud at the statement. As it was, his shoulders shook in silent derisive laughter for a few seconds before something happening at the building's entrance caught his eye. He blanched.

Then he shot forward, nearly yanking Clarke's arms out of her sockets as he shot through the crowds, deftly dodging adults and children alike. Clarke was not so agile, and accidentally slammed into a woman carrying a wicker basket full of grapes, which sent fruit everywhere. Over her shoulder, she called back an apology in Greek.

When she looked back at her jailer, she realized what he was running for. A man was being carried up the marble steps on a stretcher, held by two men who were bare-chested and whose inky blue tattoos were blurred by scars.

"Lincoln!" Clarke's captor cried out, and the man on the stretcher stirred, attempting to lift his head to look for the source of the voice.

"Bellamy?" he called back, before letting his head fall back. "Glad you could make it."

Clarke followed her companion - Bellamy, apparently - up the steps to Lincoln, who, it was clear to see, was in pretty bad shape. The two men carrying him gave Bellamy a passing nod before fixating on Clarke, but she ignored them.

She glanced over at Bellamy. The pallor that had taken over him moments ago was gone, replaced by an expression Clarke couldn't read. He reached over to grasp the other man's forearm, as if to reassure himself that he was real. "What happened to you?"

"It is nothing Indra can't fix." All the same, Lincoln's hand shook against his will as he gestured to the blood-soaked bandage patched to his rib cage. Streaks of red ran up from the wound - blood poisoning.

Bellamy hesitated, then lowered his voice to say, "Indra is in the mountains. She communes with the gods."

Lincoln took in the information silently before saying, "Octavia, then."

Bellamy's eyes widened, looking from the wound back up to his friend. "You cannot be serious."

Lincoln gave him a brusque nod, dismissing Bellamy's evident shock without a word.

The procession passed through the wide doors and into the cool interior of a long hall. Columns, like silent guards, lined the length. At the far end, a large, undecorated throne, cut from a single block of marble, occupied a dais that spanned almost the whole width of the building.

A woman occupied the throne. She was speaking with one of the many citizens who were lined up before her. Clarke couldn't make out the words, but despite the obvious difference in class - the man dressed in rough, undyed linen, and the woman wearing long, navy blue robes clasped at the shoulders with bronze knots - they seemed to address each other as equals.

Once the group entered, however, the woman rose from her seat and hushed the man with a single gesture. "Who is it that is injured?"

"Lincoln of the Trigeda," the sick man answered, with a strength that belied his poor condition.

Upon hearing his name, the woman nodded once and said, "Bring him here." She then turned to a younger woman to her right, who was staring at the man on the stretcher with wide eyes, shocked silent. "Octavia, you will heal him."

"Yes, Heda," the girl said. Her voice sounded strangled, as though she was having a hard time taking in a breath.

The two men set Lincoln down at the center of the hall, scattering the waiting citizens, who watched in unabashed curiosity. The girl - the one Bellamy and Lincoln had just been discussing, Octavia - hurried over, white robes swirling about her feet. Her dark brown hair was held tight to her head in an elaborate braid down her back, revealing a beautiful but fear-stricken face.

Bellamy moved to follow them over, but before he could, the woman at the front of the hall called out, "Bellamy of the Trigeda, who is that girl?"

He had apparently forgotten that Clarke was even there. He glanced to his right, where Clarke stood in awe-struck silence watching Octavia set to work on Lincoln. The girl traced her fingers over his forehead and chest, murmuring under her breath, not even looking at the wound on his side.

Bellamy suddenly jerked Clarke forward, bringing her eyes back to the front of the room. He led her up to the front of the line, then placed his right hand in a fist above his heart. "Heda Anya, I bring you Clarke Griffin, an intruder upon our island."

The woman's cat-like eyes were focused dispassionately on Clarke. Now that Clarke was closer to her, she could see that the dress, while elegant, hid a warrior's lean body. A thin, unadorned circlet of gold wrapped around her head. "I can see that. I ask because I do not understand why she is still alive."

Clarke's breath caught in her throat, but she forced herself forward a step. "I mean you no harm - "

"Do you think you have the right to speak?" the woman interrupted, cutting Clarke's proclamation short. "You contaminate the island with your very presence. You and your destructive people have no place here."

"I'm not here to contaminate - "

The woman gestured at Bellamy with a brief flick of her hand. He stepped behind Clarke and placed his hand over her mouth, pressing her back against his chest. In her ear, he muttered, quietly enough that the woman couldn't hear him, "I told you to remain silent."

In response, Clarke bit his finger; it tasted like leather and sweat from holding the belt all morning. She felt him stiffen, but he didn't move away.

Seeing that Clarke was suitably restrained, the woman, whose name Clarke still wasn't sure of, took in a breath to speak again. Before she could, however, Octavia let out a loud exclamation. Judging from the way it turned heads, Clarke could guess she'd just let out a curse used only by sailors on the worst of days.

"Octavia?" It was both a question and a command.

The crowd waiting for an audience parted so that the queen could see the girl, hands still moving across Lincoln's skin. She didn't turn from her patient as she said in a voice stiff with self-directed anger, "I can't heal him. His blood is poisoned, and his wound has reopened. His heart weakens."

Clarke stared at Lincoln's inert body, wracking her brain to remember his symptoms. Fever, from blood poisoning. Weak pulse. Open wound. It was classic, textbook -

"He's septic!" she burst out. Bellamy's hand muffled her words, but it was still heard. The queen's attention returned to her. Instead of listening to what she had to say - which Clarke hadn't expected in the first place - the queen nodded at Bellamy, who tightened his grip.

Clarke felt her bag, slung over Bellamy's shoulder, knock against her side, and suddenly she had an idea. Jasper, when told to prepare for all eventualities, had thought it smart to prepare a small bottle of hospital-grade antibiotics. It was a far cry from a full course of medication, and unless Clarke found another source of antibiotics within the next two days, it wouldn't do anything to save him, but it would at least buy her some time to find a more permanent solution.

In a split-second decision, Clarke threw her head back as hard as she could; it collided with Bellamy's face and he immediately relinquished his hold on her, probably more from shock than pain. When his hands raised to his nose, she yanked the bag from his shoulder and down his arm. She didn't waste another second before racing over to Lincoln and Octavia.

The two men who'd carried him in rushed for her. Clarke had actually forgotten they were even there, since they hadn't spoken in all the time she'd been in their presence. She didn't stand a chance; they tackled her to the ground, pressing her shoulders into the ground with the full weight of their bodies.

Clarke kicked her legs in the air, trying to catch one of them with a glancing blow, but they had positioned themselves so that she didn't even get close. Her bag remained tightly clasped in her right hand, which was still bound to the other in front of her. Her earpiece, which had come loose over the course of the morning, fell out and clicked against the floor. "Let me up! I can help him!"

"Bellamy, take her outside and kill her," the queen said over Clarke's struggle. Her tone of voice was vaguely annoyed. "Make an example of her. The people will like that."

"Yes, Heda," he replied, as though she had just asked him to take out the garbage. Out of the corner of her eye, Clarke saw him start in her direction with purposeful strides.

She lifted her head, casting her gaze around until it landed on Octavia, who had looked up from her patient to stare at Clarke. Unlike the two guards holding Clarke to the ground, she didn't appear threatened by her. Her hands were stained red with Lincoln's blood, and one of her blue tattoos that wrapped around her wrist and up her arm seemed to pulse with a soft glow. Clarke didn't take the time to wonder what that meant.

"Please," Clarke pleaded, "let me help him. I can fix him."

"Octavia, do not listen to her," Bellamy said, voice surprisingly close. Clarke glanced up to see him looming over her. The edge of his linen chiton fluttered dangerously close to allowing Clarke to look directly up at his . . . package, and she quickly looked away.

Octavia's eyes went from Bellamy to Clarke, before she got to her feet. Her hands clenched at her sides, but apart from that, there was no sign of fear in her eyes. "If she can save Lincoln, I will not stand by and let you kill her."

Bellamy frowned. "Octavia - "

"Let her up," Octavia commanded the two guards pressing Clarke down. They peeked uncertainly up at Bellamy, but the healer stalked over and smacked one of them upside the head. "Are you deaf? Let her go!"

" _Athelphi mou,_ " Bellamy began in Greek, fixing Octavia with a stern look, "you can't trust her. She is  _xenos_. She could kill him."

The young woman returned the stare with one of her own and stood her ground. "I cannot save him," she said, enunciating each word clearly so as to not be misunderstood. "So if she saves him or kills him even faster, either way, his pain will be eased and I can comfort myself with that."

Bellamy didn't say anything. He glanced down at Clarke's subdued form, then over his shoulder at the queen, who had remained silent. Then, finally, he looked over at Lincoln, who at that exact moment heaved a heavy, rattling cough. His jaw clenched, but he took a decisive step back and gestured at the two guards with a sharp flick of his wrist. "Let her go to him."

Reluctantly, they released Clarke, who immediately struggled into a sitting position. A brief thought flashed through her mind:  _Thank God for med school._  At this point, it was clear that it was the only thing keeping her alive.

Octavia knelt beside her and made quick work of the knotted leather around her wrists, which she handed back to Bellamy with a stiff motion. Clarke didn't take the time to rub full circulation back into her hands; she dragged her bag over to Lincoln's listless body and immediately began examining the wound at his side.

Octavia was beside her in a second. Clarke peered at her sidelong and said, "Thank you for that."

Her companion didn't look up. "I saved you because you said you could save him. Do not make me regret doing so."

Clarke nodded, simultaneously afraid of and in appreciative awe of the girl to her right. "Can you stitch this wound? It doesn't seem to have hit anything important, but we need to close it up."

"Yes," Octavia answered curtly, hands going automatically to the injury and covering it. Clarke was about to interject that she needed to actually physically close it when she noticed the girl's tattoo begin to beat with light again, and she realized that the question was actually at the bottom of a long list of questions she needed answered first. None of which could be answered with the dying man in front of them.

Clarke began rummaging through her bag, removing bags and tubs of various handmade medicines that Jasper had been experimenting with, as well as a first-aid kit which he had packed with regular medication and supplies. She popped the kit open, fingers tracing over the labels of a few glass bottles before she found the one marked in Jasper's messy all-caps handwriting as  _Broad-Spec Antibiotics_. She flipped it over and read the component antibacterials on the back label before nodding to herself.

She set it on the marble floor beside her gently, so as not to break the thin glass. Octavia looked down at it, then up at Clarke with a new glint of interest. "You are trained for this?"

Clarke was still looking for a suitably-sized needle among her limited options. Distractedly, she said, "Yeah. I was training to be a doctor. A healer."

"I know what a doctor is," Octavia told her, sounding somewhat annoyed with the condescension. After a second, she asked, "What is it you said earlier, when Bellamy was holding you?"

"He's septic," Clarke replied, comparing two needles impatiently. "Septicemia is the medical term for severe blood-poisoning."

Octavia made a soft "huh" noise and didn't say anything else. Clarke didn't know if she'd understood what she'd meant, but she didn't have the time or mental space to care at the moment.

She decided on the biggest needle available, wiped it down with an antiseptic gel, and set the kit aside in favor of the bottle of medication. She removed the cap and stuck the needle through the thin protective membrane covering the mouth. She gauged Lincoln's weight briefly, then took out an approximate dose. She couldn't be certain without the proper equipment, but she hoped that it would be enough.

Remember her training, she flicked the needle a few times, letting all the air bubbles come to the top of the needle before she squeezed them out. Then she moved around to Lincoln's other side. His eyes followed her, but he said nothing.

Clarke's fingers went to his forearm, trying to find the right vein. His skin was boiling. She glanced over at Octavia and said, "I'm ready."

"Do what must be done," said the girl. Her hands were still clasped firmly over his wound, tensing every few seconds in time to the gleaming beat running down her tattoo. Clarke stared at the blue-inked skin for a second longer then necessary before her medical training forced her to return her attention to the patient.

Her fingers pinpointed the vein, and with her other hand, she retrieved the small packet of antiseptic gel she'd used to clean the needle to disinfect his skin. She brought the needle up and positioned it above the vein, sucked in a steeling breath, then pressed it into his arm. With a single, unwavering motion, she depressed the needle, then set it aside.

"Pass me that box," she instructed Octavia, gesturing at the first aid kit. The girl raised a single thin eyebrow at her, a motion that clearly said,  _Do it yourself_. Clarke let out a short sigh and reached over Lincoln's body to grab it for herself. She was about to pull it back when she felt the man's hot skin against hers. His fingers wrapped around her wrist, drawing her eyes over to his.

"If I die," he said in a low voice, "know that I thank you for your aid."

Clarke stared at him, barely breathing. For some reason, the small glimmer of trust in his voice made her lose hers. Finally, she said, "You won't die. I won't let you."

He made an odd noise at that. It took Clarke a few seconds to realize that it was a laugh, but it quickly devolved into a wet-sounding cough. When he at last caught his breath, he murmured, "That is because my death would signal yours as well,  _xenos_."

Clarke swallowed tightly, but there was a lump in her throat. She knew he was right, and it scared her.

Still, it didn't mean that she had to look like it. She placed the bag down beside her and pulled a cotton ball from a Ziploc bag and pressed it to the injection site. She proceeded to tape it in place with a strip of medical tape she ripped off with her teeth.

Finally, she took in a deep breath and sat back on her heels. Octavia eyed her from her position opposite the injured warrior. Clarke tried to look calm, shrugging her shoulders as though she treated septic Atlantian warriors every day. "Now we wait to see if we caught it early enough to save him."

"You had better hope you did," Bellamy said, voice especially deep in threat. Clarke looked over to see him standing beside the guards, who'd gotten back to their feet in the time it had taken Clarke to treat Lincoln. His arms were locked across his chest, impassive.

"Bellamy - " Octavia objected, but her voice had weakened since she'd last spoken. Clarke noticed that her skin had taken on an unsettling pallor, and the shadows under her eyes seemed more pronounced than they had been two minutes earlier. Clarke's gaze travelled down the girl's arms to where they were connected to Lincoln's side, wondering just what she was doing.

Bellamy ignored her and continued as though Octavia hadn't said a word. "Because he was right. If he dies, you will go with him."

Clarke's jaw clamped shut, heart pounding in her chest. Then, with a bit of desperate dramatic flair, she tilted her chin back and met his glare head-on. "So be it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know it's been a little while since the last update (sorry, i haven't had a lot of time lately) but i hope you liked this new chapter! by the way, clarke didn't realize it yet, but we've already established that bellamy and octavia are siblings ( _Athelphi mou_ means "my sister" in greek, for anybody wondering; _xenos_ means foreign).
> 
> anyways, as always, thanks for reading! remember, you can find me (and my crappy oneshots) at earthbellamy.tumblr.com  
> comment/kudos if you liked it! :)


	6. 5 : yes heda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke seems to be unable to not risk her life at every possible opportunity, and the gods of chance give her a break.

 

 

It was the longest night of Clarke's life.

Immediately following her stunt in the hall - the Democratiki, as she later learned it was called - she, Lincoln, and Octavia were moved into what Bellamy impatiently translated as a hospital. In Clarke's case, "moved" might have been too nice a word; she barely managed to grab her earpiece from the floor and shove it into her bag before the two guards were grabbing ahold of her arms and tugging her along behind them. Bellamy followed tightly behind Clarke as Octavia barked orders for two of the waiting civilians to help carry Lincoln to their destination.

If there had been any doubt as to her status as prisoner when entering the building, there was none as she left it. Jeers and shouts followed her, a few of the more vicious-sounding ones making Bellamy laugh out loud. After a particularly emphatic burst of hilarity, Clarke kicked out her foot behind her and managed to catch him in the shins, eliciting a satisfying "oomph" from her captor.

Clarke wished she could talk to her crew. The earpiece had been buzzing madly when she'd scooped it up, probably from Monty's continued freak-out, and she hadn't been able to put it back in. If she managed to survive the night, she would consider risking it, but until then she knew she would never have the chance - besides which, it probably wouldn't help her case if she suddenly started talking to thin air. In the words of blatant cliché, Clarke would bide her time until an opportunity presented itself.

The hospital, which was only a few streets over from the Democratiki, was nothing like the hospitals back home. To distract herself from her predicament, Clarke tracked her journey through the building, all the while taking notes about its architecture. Rectangular in shape, with a square courtyard at the center laid with stone benches, flowers, and dry basin that might have held a pond once. The actual building was broken down into small, equal rooms that all opened out onto the court.

Clarke was led into one such room and was pushed down onto a three-legged stool by the wall. Octavia and the two men carrying Lincoln were behind her shortly, with the healer's hands still firmly clasped over his wound. Her entire body seemed to have wilted; her brown hair was limp, her skin sallow, her shoulders shaking. Still, she sounded sharply disapproving when her helpers moved to set Lincoln on the floor: "On the bed, _moroni_. _Sto krevati_."

Obediently, they sank Lincoln down onto the sturdy cot in the corner of the room, then hurried back to the Democratiki before she could yell at them some more. Though Clarke's guards still loomed nearby, she had the freedom of movement to drag her stool over to allow Octavia to sit on it, who did so with a murmured thanks that Clarke might have imagined.

Bellamy had disappeared shortly after they'd reached the hospital, but he returned once the civilians had left with a girl dressed in a similar fashion to Octavia in tow. Her eyes widened at the sight of Clarke - she remembered just how she was dressed, head-to-toe in clingy black fabric, and started wondering why she hadn't gotten more of those looks.

" _Athelphi mou_ , let Irini take over," he told Octavia, guiding the other healer into the room. "You will hurt yourself."

Octavia gave him a derisive look over her shoulder before turning back to her work. "Irini cannot heal a broken finger without fainting. I need Echo or Nyko or Indra, and since all three are in the mountains and are unreachable by all, the only thing I need now is for you to leave."

Bellamy stared at the back of his sister's head for a moment in silent anger before he waved Irini away and stepped inside. He glanced at Clarke as he said, "I will not leave you alone."

"The two sailors wait outside. You may wait with them." Octavia was unyielding.

Bellamy looked like he wanted to strangle her, but, in a surprisingly subdued tone, he muttered, "As you say."

Once he was gone, Clarke moved over to Lincoln's bedside, taking her bag with her. After leaning over to check his temperature - less, but still there - and measure his pulse, she sat back and looked to Octavia.

The girl was maybe two years her junior, but there was a determination in the set of her face that looked years older. The navy blue tattoos that everyone on the island seemed to have traced down both her arms in whorls and knots, spiralling over each finger. They were still faintly glowing with a bioluminescent blue.

It took a few minutes for Octavia to feel Clarke's eyes on her, but when she did, she gave her an expectant look. "Do you not have something to do? Fetch the cloth and pail of water from the far corner."

Clarke didn't budge. "Are you all right?"

Her look became one of exasperation. "Of course not. I only told my brother I was so that he would leave us alone. Which is why you must get the cloth and water."

Clarke considered saying no, but it would only serve to annoy the one semi-tolerant person she'd met on the island, and she wanted Octavia on her side. In a flash, the wooden bucket of water was by Lincoln's bedside, and Clarke was dampening the thick piece of fabric with it. Still, her eyes skirted Octavia, genuinely worried about her condition.

"Stop looking at me," the girl commanded. Her eyes had fallen shut once Clarke had gotten up, but they snapped open now. "In less than three minutes, I will fall unconscious. You must be the one to care for Lincoln when that happens. Do you understand?"

_Not really,_ Clarke wanted to say, but she nodded.

Seeing that, her companion cracked the barest of smiles. "No, you do not. But you will do it anyway, because you are a healer, just like me." She closed her eyes again. "I like you, Clarke Griffin."

Clarke stared at her. The girl didn't seem to be the joking type, but Clarke just couldn't seem to wrap her head around the thought that this foreign, resilient girl could possibly see past the black wetsuit and the American accent and reconcile them with her own world view. Clarke was _xenos_ ; it had been said often enough since she'd arrived on the island.

"Don't just sit there like a landed fish," Octavia snapped, breaking into Clarke's thoughts with a sharp tongue. "Your time to think is up. Get to work."

She promptly crumpled to the floor.

Clarke snatched at the bucket as a reflex, clutching it tightly against her chest. It only took a second for Bellamy to rush in and take account of the room. Clarke expected an accusation - _what did you do to my sister?_ \- but all he did was stifle a sigh and haul her bodily up into his arms. He held her like a young child and as though she weighed as much. Seeing them together, even with one of them unconscious, Clarke suddenly saw the family resemblance: in the determined slant of their eyes, the long limbs, the shape of their jaw.

Just before Bellamy moved to the door, he fixed Clarke with a serious look. "Did she not tell you to do something?"

"I'm sorry?" Clarke asked, head still reeling from Octavia's proclamation and sudden collapse.

"She told you to take care of Lincoln." He jerked his chin in the direction of the listless man, like Clarke could possibly have forgotten who Lincoln was in the last half hour. "So do it. And know that if you abandon your post for even a second, you will have me to deal with."

And he left without so much as a backward glance.

Clarke soon became aware of two things: one, he had overheard their whole conversation. He had known exactly what was going to happen, and moreover, he'd let it happen, which either meant that Octavia wasn't seriously hurt, or it was a common occurrence, maybe both. Second, he only trusted her to be in the room alone with Lincoln because Octavia had agreed to it. Clarke knew without a doubt that if the healer hadn't told Clarke to help, she would have already been tied up again, or maybe even dead.

Clarke looked over at Lincoln. Now that Octavia's hands had fallen away, she could see the wound - or what had used to be the wound. In its place was now a narrow pink scar, though blood still smeared the skin around it. Unconsciously, Clarke's hand moved up to her left biceps, where her gash was still open. It didn't hurt anymore, or maybe she had just gotten used to it, but now that she remembered it was even there, she had the strong desire to clean it out with the cloth in her hands. She was nearly certain that it would become infected if she didn't do anything about it soon, but she also had Lincoln to take care of.

For a moment, she wasn't sure what to do, but Lincoln chose her next move for her when he cracked an eye open and muttered, "Octavia?"

Shaking off the lingering unease at leaving her wound untreated, Clarke reached out with the damp cloth and sponged at his forehead, hushing him in the process. "Octavia will be back later. Don't worry, I'll take care of you."

\- - -

"Clarke, wake up!" The stage whisper pierced through the thin veil of sleep, but it was only when the next call came - "You must rouse yourself!" - that she realized who was speaking to her. She shot upright, nearly toppling from her stool.

Lincoln's dark eyes were watching her, surprisingly lucid given his condition. His hand had a small tremor in the wrist as he reached out to point at her bag. "You must look like you are treating me."

Too hazy with sleep to question his words, Clarke did as he said, pulling out an antiseptic wipe, needle, and antibiotics. As she did so, she glanced at him sidelong, blinking owlishly. "What's wrong?"

"You fell asleep at five this morning," Lincoln told her. She wanted to ask how he could judge the time so well from the grey-pink light falling through the doorway, but restrained herself. Now was clearly not the time. "I let you sleep for as long as I could, but a healer's assistant came in a minute ago and saw that you were asleep. She went to report it to Bellamy, as he instructed."

Despite just having woken up, Clarke felt the words like a shock in her spine. Lincoln saw the realization dawn on her face - she had abandoned her post, and Bellamy was coming to take her away - and he took her hand up in his before the true fear could set in. He locked his gaze with hers, as though forcing her to listen to him.

"Listen to me. You were not asleep. You were praying to the gods as I instructed you to. You called upon Hestia, goddess of hearth and home, to bring me comfort in my illness."

He gave her an affirmative look, like he was asking if she had understood. She had, for the most part, but there was still something she didn't quite comprehend. "Why do you care what happens to me?"

Lincoln hesitated before saying, "I know enough of _xenos_ people to know that you are a good one."

"But how?" Clarke demanded, the fatigue which had still been lingering until now vanishing in the pursuit of new information. As a reflex, she reached out to check his fever. "Wait, Lincoln, you're burning up again!"

"I had not noticed." Judging from his expression, however, he had, and was wholly aware of what Clarke was about to say.

Clarke let out a sharp expletive. "The whole point of antibiotics is that you have to take them regularly. When did you start feeling feverish?"

He didn't hesitate this time. "Shortly after you fell asleep."

"Then wake me up next time!" Clarke immediately began disinfecting the needle and cleaned a patch of skin for an injection site. Lincoln watched her unapologetically, as though putting himself at risk so that she could have an hour of sleep had been the only logical conclusion.

Clarke flicked at the needle impatiently, trying to direct her anger away from the sick Atlantian but not succeeding. "I need you to live."

"I am aware."

She stuck the needle in without warning. "Then why are you making it so difficult?"

Before Lincoln could answer, a shadow crossed over the ambient light from the doorway. When the darkness didn't pass, Clarke's eyes shot to Lincoln, who blinked solemnly - a confirmation.

Clarke carried on with what she was doing, acting as though her heart rate hadn't just doubled. When she was sure that her voice wouldn't shake, she said, "You're blocking my light."

"Rhea said you were sleeping," Bellamy said, not moving. His voice sounded even more gruff in the morning; maybe he hadn't slept either.

"Actually, I was praying," Clarke responded, withdrawing the needle. She set it aside with steady hands and replaced the small cotton ball over the injection site. "But I appreciate Rhea's concern."

"Lincoln, tell me the truth," Bellamy said. He clearly wasn't going to take Clarke's word for it, though the fact didn't come as a surprise to any. The darker-skinned man made a weak half-shrug on his bed, a silent signal of _I don't know what to tell you._

"I asked her to call upon Hestia for me," he answered. "She obliged."

Clarke glanced over her shoulder to see Bellamy's jaw clench as he stared at his friend on the cot. He hadn't changed his attire since yesterday, though his vest was now retied and the short sleeves of his shirt were rolled up under the shoulders of it. The change revealed more of his tattoos, which wrapped around his biceps like blue bracelets. Clarke had seen Octavia's glow, but Bellamy's had remained dark in all the time she'd seen him. She wondered what they did for him - if she had guessed correctly, they had some healing abilities in Octavia's case. But if that was true, then why could no one else help heal Lincoln before he'd gotten to the Democratiki?

In a tired motion, Bellamy rubbed his face with his hands, then let them fall to his sides with a sigh. His voice was quieter when he spoke next. "Lincoln, please do not lie to me. I only aim to help you."

"I know that, brother," Lincoln told him. "But your prejudice blinds you to those who would save me."

"Prejudice?" Bellamy echoed, clearly taking the hint and looking to Clarke, who cast her eyes between the two men before settling on cleaning up the medicine. She had the feeling that anything she had to say would be immediately shot down by Bellamy, so for once, she was glad to let someone else fight her battles for her. "It is not prejudice, _brother_ , it is caution. You recall the last time a _xenos_ was allowed to live free on this island?"

"I never forget the cautionary tale, if that is what you ask," Lincoln retorted, responding to Bellamy's annoyance in kind. "It speaks of a time long since passed."

Bellamy scoffed at that. "How much has society truly changed in five hundred years? Do they still follow greed? Do they still desire renown?" He pointed a finger at Clarke. "The answer is yes. She comes to discover this land in the name of science, but once she has taken all our secrets, she will fling them into the open and we will all be ruined."

"I'm not here to ruin you!" Clarke exclaimed, unable to contain herself. She thrust herself to her feet and stalked over to Bellamy. "I'm here to prove my father right. What do you call that?"

He raised a single eyebrow at her, unflinching in the face of her verbal attack. "I believe I already mentioned renown, did I not?"

She glared at him, physically unable to form words from anger at his accusations for almost a full thirty seconds. When she did manage to speak again, it was only through tight lips and locked teeth. "You don't know anything about me. Stop acting like you do and let me save your damn friend."

He took a step towards her, trying to make her back down. She held her ground. He was close enough for her to feel his words as he steadily demanded, "Were you asleep, Clarke Griffin?"

She tilted her head back. "Yes."

Before Bellamy could do anything, Lincoln spoke up from the cot. "Leave her be, Bellamy. She is the only one who can help me now."

The warrior's eyes didn't leave Clarke's as a small smile tugged at his mouth. His words, however, were not directed at her, but at Lincoln. "Actually, Indra came down from the mountains early this morning. She has gone to meet with Heda, but when she returns, she will take over your care. Clarke has officially lived out her use."

For a moment, no one breathed. Then, the small rush of released air from the bed told Clarke all she needed to know - Indra really could save him, and Bellamy was telling the truth. And he had come into the sickroom knowing it, already well-aware that he was leaving with Clarke no matter what her answer was.

As stubborn as Clarke was, she wasn't stupid. The room had one exit, and Bellamy was blocking it with his body. She wasn't going to escape him, and even if she did somehow manage to take him out, there were the two guards outside the door and undoubtedly many more on her path into the city. She wouldn't be able to get away, no matter how many strokes of luck she got. At this point, she was also doubting her position with the gods of chance, given her streak since crashing on the island. Either way, this was it - whatever "it" was.

Bellamy must have seen something change in her eyes, because he cocked his head at her. He motioned at her station beside Lincoln's bed. "Take up your things, Clarke Griffin."

Clarke's lip curled, but she went over to the cot and grabbed her bag anyways. She looped the strap over her shoulder, the gesture emanating finality. When she was about to move away, she felt something brush against her leg, and she saw Lincoln reaching to get her attention. Meeting her eyes, he murmured, "I am sorry."

Clarke pursed her lips, forcing a careless shrug that didn't fool either of them. "It's all right. Thanks for trying."

"Do not apologize, Lincoln," Bellamy called over, apparently eavesdropping on the conversation and unembarrassed to show it. "If it makes you both feel any better about this, it is my fault. It is also clear that I am the only one enjoying this, so I accept the blame for that too."

Clarke whirled around and snapped, "Could you shut your mouth? Just for ten seconds. I dare you."

He clearly didn't feel the need to prove himself. He strode forward, grabbing her by the wrist. "I care nothing for your dares or your contests. You will do as I say, because I am the one who controls your life now. I could kill you where you stand."

"Then do it already!" Clarke shot back, trying to wrench her hand away and failing. For the first time since meeting him, he seemed perplexed by her words. Before she could lose her edge, she pushed on. "Go on, kill me. You've been threatening me with death for a full day now, so go ahead and do it already."

Their eyes locked for a long second, then, between one blink and the next, she was being pressed up against the wall. A thin blade bit into her neck, cutting only the surface but applying enough pressure that every breath stung. Bellamy's freckled nose was inches from hers, his brow furrowed in concentration. Clarke waited for her breath to return.

"Do not tempt me, Clarke Griffin," he said lowly.

"I'll do whatever I want," Clarke replied through gritted teeth. "Kill me."

He hesitated, just for a second, before his dark eyes blinked and it was gone. But it was enough, and they both knew it - he couldn't do it. For some reason, he couldn't do it, and the realization sent a shock of relief through Clarke's body.

Before one of them could mention it, however, the doorway darkened again and someone barked, "Bellamy, release her."

As though touched by a live wire, he leapt back, leaving Clarke to rub at her neck. Now that he was no longer obstructing her view, she saw the woman who had given the command - the Heda, their queen - accompanied by a black-skinned woman dressed in the same white robes as Octavia. When she turned, the light hit her from a different angle, and suddenly, Clarke re-evaluated her description of the woman: though her skin was darker than Lincoln's, it had appeared black in the shadows because it ran thick with blue lines. Her face was almost entirely clear of them, but they covered her arms, like streaks of navy paint. Clarke's eyes widened at the sight of them, but the woman paid her no heed. She strode purposefully over to Lincoln and placed a hand on his forehead.

After a moment, the Heda spoke again. "Indra, how has he healed?"

"He fights the blood poisoning well," the woman replied. She gestured at Clarke with the terseness of a doctor who didn't have time for anyone but their patients. "She saved his life."

"Octavia saved his life," Bellamy interjected. "The _xenos_ only helped - "

"Be silent," Indra said. She didn't have to raise her voice. Bellamy bit his tongue and stayed quiet. She continued what she had been in the middle of saying when Bellamy had interrupted her. "You know my recommendation, Heda. Do with it what you will."

Clarke looked from the healer to the queen, having the innate sense that they were discussing her. The Heda fixed her with an expressionless look, as though contemplating a puzzle that required solving before anything else could be done. The fire-red cloth that draped her body sent reflections of warm pink light across the room, softening her features. Clarke wasn't fooled - she knew the woman felt no mercy towards her, had no softness. Leading had done that to her.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the Heda took in a breath to speak. "Clarke Griffin, you have saved one of our own. You have given him his life, and thus, we will do the same."

Bellamy's eyes widened at the proclamation, while Clarke's heart might have stopped altogether. The Heda continued impassively. "You will be allowed to explore our home within restrictions that I and the Council of Ten shall set, and you will be monitored at all times. You will go nowhere without a guard at your side. You will follow the rules given to you by me. If you break these rules, or refuse to consent, your life will pay the forfeit."

Bellamy burst out, "We cannot trust her, Heda - "

"Trust is not what we have given her," she said, addressing both of them at the same time. Clarke was hanging onto every word by that point, unable to believe that they were going to let her live. They were going to let her study Atlantis. "Trust is earned by many lives, and she has given us just one. She has earned life and only life."

"But - "

The Heda turned to face the warrior at his attempt at a protest, and he immediately swallowed his words. He ducked his head, muttering, "Apologies, Heda."

She stared at him, then cleared her throat. "And I have decided."

When she didn't go on, Bellamy took his cue to say, "Decided what, Heda?"

"It is you, Bellamy of the Trigeda, who will stay with Clarke Griffin. You will be her guide." His head shot up, disbelief written across his features. If Clarke wasn't mistaken, she detected a bit of satisfaction in the Heda's voice when she said, "So I have said, and so it shall be."

Bellamy swallowed his pride. "Yes, Heda."

The queen then turned back to Clarke with a decisive expression. "Your study begins tomorrow, Clarke Griffin. Until then, you will be housed at the Democratiki. Bellamy will see to your accommodations."

She moved to the door, then paused long enough to say over her shoulder, "Use your time wisely, _xenos_ , and do not make me regret my decision."

Then she was gone, and Clarke . . . Clarke was still alive.

Maybe the gods of chance had changed their minds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry if that was a little bit rushed, guys, but i really wanted that final scene to happen this chapter before moving on.  
> also...sorry for being about a month late on the update. school has been crazy, but i'm going to try and update more often from now on (we'll see how that goes).
> 
> let me know what you think in the comments! (and if i haven't replied to your comments yet, know that i've read them and i probably just haven't figured out how to answer yet because i'm a poorly-socialized nerd who's terrible with words in the real world)
> 
> thanks so much for reading!


	7. 6 : stupid. very stupid.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never underestimate Clarke's ability to make bad decisions.

It was like being underwater: flashes of color and people and the overwhelming desire to stop and catch your breath, in a whirlwind of muted sound. Clarke passed the morning underwater, and in spite of feeling as though she were drowning every other moment, she found herself enjoying it very much.

Bellamy first pulled her through the waking markets of the city. Vendors were setting up shops along wide roofed halls -  _stoa_ , Bellamy told her brusquely when she asked - and there were already men and women out perusing their wares with critical eyes. Calls rang out in Greek, but within them Clarke heard snippets of other languages - English, Spanish, Mandarin, German. She asked Bellamy about it, but he ignored her. Instead, he approached a cloth vendor and made a few curt orders that the stall owner hastily scribbled down. As he did, Clarke drank in the sights and smells - a thousand times more potent now that she knew she wasn't in danger of being killed. There was the sound of sizzling meat, the tuning of a lyre, friendly conversation. She could have stayed all day.

That evidently didn't fit into Bellamy's schedule. After pulling her through the waking markets, Bellamy dragged her to the bathhouse, not even stopping to let her admire the fountain at the front of the Democratiki.

Similar in style to a community pool, the baths were located a street past the Democratiki and were already busy with other patrons. The entirety of the room was tiled in a dark green stone, but from years of wear and the slick of humidity, they gleamed like the surface of a still pond. Skylights allowed in shafts of light, which illuminated rippling patches of water in the central pool.

In this pool, few young boys splashed at each other, watched over by a woman Clarke assumed to be their mother. An elderly couple sat side-by-side in the corner, and a lone man of thirty or so bathed apart. All were entirely naked, but it was impossible for Clarke to feel embarrassed by it in face of how normally they acted. It didn't hurt that Bellamy kept shooting her sidelong looks, as though expecting her to remark upon it or avert her eyes.

When it became clear that she was supposed to get cleaned up in a similar fashion, she steeled herself to the idea of stripping naked in front of him. It was imperative that she didn't let him win, any more than she'd allowed that on their trek from the beach to the city. Her hands went to the zipper of her wetsuit, but before she could get any further, a bath attendant appeared at her elbow chiding in broken English, "Heda reserve bath. Not here."

Clarke hoped her relief didn't show on her face, but from the slight smirk on Bellamy's face as he slipped past her following the attendant, she knew she hadn't hidden it well enough. But Clarke absolutely refused to let him get to her, so, upon arriving at her private bath in a hall off the main baths, she held herself back from drawing the curtains shut in his face and instead kicked off her shoes stepped down into the green-tiled bath without giving him a second glance. The narrow rectangular window set high in the wall in front of her was angled to catch the light of the rising sun. The surprisingly warm water greeted her, and she paused to set her bag down on a stool beside the bath before continuing in up to her shoulders, where she reached the bottom.

There was the sound of clothes shifting at the door. The bath attendant had hurried off in search of towels, so the presence at the entrance was, by necessity, Bellamy's. Clarke pretended not to notice him, even as he cleared his throat to alert her of his being there. With her back to him, she felt much more at ease about stripping the suit—it was almost possible to forget he was even there. However, the job was much easier said than done. She managed to extricate her right shoulder and arm before she realized that the suit was stuck to her left biceps by means of a thick cast of blood. She pursed her lips and tightened her grip on the fabric in preparation of ripping it off with a single go.

Something about her maneuvering must have betrayed her actions, however. A hand placed over her own stopped her before she could, and she looked up to see Bellamy crouched by the side of the pool. He was close enough that the edge of his short linen kilt nearly touched the surface of the water where it fell slack between his legs. His gaze was set on her shoulder, completely unaware of the stunned look she was directing at him. His other hand reached out to prod at the wound, causing Clarke to wince, but he only strengthened his hold on her shoulder so that she couldn't move away. His fingers traced lightly across the torn skin, judging the depth of the bite.

After a few more minutes of silent inspection, he finally turned to her. His eyes were serious, all mocking spirit having drained from them upon seeing the extent of her injury. "You should have informed me as to the graveness of your wound—"

Before he could finish his reprimand, Clarke pulled her arm back and gave him a look of appalled disbelief. "Hold up. First of all, this isn't  _grave_ , it's manageable, and I would have been able to manage it if you hadn't tied me up when we met. Second of all, I was a little bit preoccupied with saving your friend's life under the threat of death to ask about who would stitch me up."

His brow furrowed, and he opened his mouth to speak, but Clarke cut him off. "Get off your hypocritical high horse already and get me a needle and thread. There's a sterile package in the left pocket front pocket in my bag—"

"Are you implying that you will close the wound yourself?" The English words sounded even more stilted than usual in his confusion.

"Unless you're offering," Clarke answered, but when he appeared to take her literally, she immediately backtracked and said, "Yes, I'm going to do it myself. I wouldn't trust you to touch me with a needle in a hundred years."

The judging expression returned full-force. "I am excellent with a needle."

"So am I." She went to point at the bag with her left hand, but Bellamy's prodding had left the muscle sore, so she used her right instead. Bellamy noticed the change with a disapproving look. "Get me my things."

"No."

It was her turn to frown. "Are you really going to do this?" _  
_

"Yes."

She stared at him, but it was clear after only a few seconds that he wasn't going to back down. The set of his jaw was as determined as the moment he set his sword against her throat the day before. He clearly believed he was in control of the situation. She narrowed her eyes. She was about to prove him wrong.

Ignoring the Raven Reyes Bad Decision rant that instantly began playing in her head from memory, Clarke knew what she had to do—or at least, she knew what she _wanted_ to do, but at the moment, they felt like one and that same. Clearing her throat, she stepped over to the other side of the bath. As she did, she turned her back to Bellamy, listening carefully for any movement on his part. His eyes undoubtedly tracked her, but he didn't move yet. "What are you doing?"

Clarke shrugged, ignoring the twinge of pain it sent running down her arm. Her right hand went to the shoulder of the wetsuit as casually as she could manage. "I'm considering my options."

"Why must you consider them over there?"

Clarke smirked. Her next decision was going to be stupid, but it was going to be worth it, if just to get him off her back. The voice at the back of her head disagreed (in Raven's voice) but she ignored it and glanced back to where he was still crouched beside the edge of the pool. "Because otherwise you'd stop me from doing this."

With her words—she got dramatic when she was annoyed—she grabbed the fabric and ripped violently down. There was a sound like separating Velcro, a flash of white-hot pain, and then the wound was clear of the sleeve. On the plus side, Bellamy's eyes saucered and he leaped to his feet with a loud Greek curse, evidently taken aback. On the downside, the wound had reopened in full and was now dripping blood into the pool, staining the surface pink.

The pain suddenly reached Clarke's head, and she let out a weak, "Ow," before staggering back a step. Bellamy was by her side in a second, grabbing her harshly and hauling her bodily out of the water and onto the tiled floor. Clarke was too stunned by the sudden response and the pain from her poorly-planned show of force to fight him off, so she didn't resist as he pulled her back so that her head rested against his chest. There was a steady stream of expletives tumbling from his lips, but he didn't bother to direct any of them at Clarke. Instead, he cupped his hand over the seeping wound in an attempt to stop the bleeding.

Clarke gestured at her injury with her free hand. "I could still stitch - "

"Shut your mouth. Now." His angry gaze flashed down to hers before it returned to her wound. After a moment, he continued his chastise in English stunted by fury: "You are stupid. Very stupid. And now you are bleeding, and I cannot help you. You were bitten by a cetus, and all you think of is your own pride. You think this is funny, yes? You think you are showing me that you are strong? All you are showing me is that you are _ena vlakas_  - a fool."

"Well, you were being an ass, so - "

" _Shut your_ _mouth_."

Clarke, for once, did as she was told. She fixed her eyes on the window to stop herself from acknowledging how annoyed she was with him - and herself. The glass was warped, making the outside world an incomprehensible swath of light and colors. That was why she was here: to understand what lay beyond that window. But she'd let her own emotions get the better of her. As Bellamy had said, it had been stupid.

She wouldn't take it back, though. No matter how much Bellamy ragged on her, patronized her, made fun of her, somewhere deep inside she was still glad she'd done it. Because while it had been ridiculously foolish, Bellamy was also lying. The angry look in his eyes - the majority of it was directed at her, but some of it, just some of it, was directed at himself. Just as she was annoyed with herself from making the stupid move, he was annoyed with himself for letting her take it. He had underestimated her ability to make wildly bad choices, and it meant that for the barest fraction of a second, Clarke had held the upper hand.

Then she'd started bleeding profusely and the upper hand went away.

There was the sound of footsteps in the hall, then at the door. Clarke couldn't see what was going on, but she could pinpoint the exact moment when the bath assistant looked up to see the bloody tableau by the soft thump of the towels falling to the floor. Bellamy twisted his head around to see her, pulling Clarke with him. The girl stared at her with wide eyes for a moment before bursting into a rapid-fire tirade in Greek.

Clarke felt Bellamy let out a short, impatient sigh. He raised his free hand in a placating gesture, but the blood-smeared fingers seemed only to provoke her further. Her voice raised in pitch and volume, working its way up to a full-on freak out. After it persisted for a few moments more, Bellamy's patience snapped and he barked a command at her. She instantly fell silent.

When she seemed to calm down somewhat, Bellamy jerked his head in the direction of Clarke's bag. His Greek was too fluent for Clarke to follow completely, but she didn't need the words themselves to tell her that he was instructing the assistant to bring the bag over to him. With shaking hands, she carried it over, then recollected the towels and placed them in a messy pile beside them. Seconds later, she fled the room, shrill voice once again ringing out as she presumably told everyone in her vicinity that someone was committing murder in one of the baths.

As though reading Clarke's thoughts, Bellamy turned her away from the door again and said, "Ignore her."

He pulled open her bag and pulled out her med kit. Clarke wanted to ask how he knew which one it was, but then she remembered that she'd pulled it out to help Lincoln yesterday. Evidently Bellamy had been paying attention.

She eyed the needle that Bellamy pulled out. Now that she was actually faced with it, she wasn't so enthused with the idea of being sewn up with minimal anaesthetics. "Couldn't you just send for one of the healers?"

"You are  _xenos_ ," he answered. "Of course not."

Clarke set her jaw. "Oh, yeah, prejudice always wins out, I forgot."

"This is not prejudice, Clarke Griffin," Bellamy said, finding the sutures and antiseptic without Clarke's prompting - a behavior she found odd but didn't have the time to question. "I assume that you wish to continue breathing."

"That would be ideal." The sarcasm didn't go unnoticed by her guardian.

"The last time our magic was used to help a  _xenos_ , he bled from every orifice in his body until he died."

Clarke's eyes widened, and she squirmed in an attempt to free herself. "What?"

His grip clamped down on her until she stopped moving. He dipped the needle in the antiseptic, then poured some over her wound, making Clarke hiss in a sharp breath. "You would be incompatible with our magic. Many theories exist as to why, discussing impurity of blood or the disfavor of the gods. I personally have no word in the matter, but what I  _do_ know is that if I bring a healer here, you will likely die."

He maneuvered her until her uninjured shoulder was pressed against the tile under his knee, restricting her movement. His gaze met hers. Sweat from the humid heat of the bathhouse beaded on his brow. He gave her a frustrating smile. "But you should not mind that. You were willing to do the stitches yourself, after all."

Clarke muttered a weak assent. Bellamy threaded the needle with practiced fingers, holding it up to the hazy light from the window.

"Hold still," was all he said in way of warning before he brought the needle into her skin. Clarke went rigid but kept her mouth shut. The pain in her arm spiked, sending sparks across her vision. Nevertheless, she grit her teeth, refusing to make a sound - Bellamy would be waiting for that, and she wasn't about to give it to him.  _This isn't so bad_ , she lied to herself.  _I can do this_.

However, when Bellamy pushed the needle through, it became clear that she really couldn't. He readjusted his grip on her shoulder wordlessly and kept going. By the third stitch, she was out cold.

\- - -

Clarke came to in a small room that smelled of lavender. The white-washed walls that greeted her were bright with the sunlight coming in through the paneless window in the wall opposite her. For a moment, she couldn't remember why she'd been out, but then her arm began to throb full-force, and everything came rushing back with painful clarity. The reckless decision, the frightened attendant, the triumphant smirk on Bellamy's face, the needle.

Her right hand immediately went to her wound, which was now sealed with five stitches. It was then that she realized she was no longer wearing her dark wetsuit - it had been replaced by a linen garment of sorts, though of what kind Clarke couldn't be sure without getting up. She was hesitant to move just yet; there was an ache at the base of her skull, likely from the tension that remained in her shoulders.

After almost a minute, she finally steeled herself to sit up, swinging her legs over the side of the cot to rest her feet on the cold stone floor. Her head spun momentarily, but she forced herself upright before she could talk herself out of it. The fabric fell loosely about her, only held up by the two circular pins set with an opaque pink stone at her shoulders. When she moved to take a step forward, she felt the swish of fabric against her knees. Turning her gaze down, she saw that while the pins held the piece of rectangular fabric up, they did nothing to give it any sort of shape, and it fell like a shower curtain about her. The garment fell just past her knees and hung utterly straight. Clarke also became aware that she was completely naked beneath the fabric.

"What the hell . . . ?"

"It is not finished, evidently," came a voice from the door to her left. Clarke spun to see Bellamy leaning against the door frame, arms crossed over his chest. His eyes were impassive, as were the rest of his features. Clarke instinctively copied his position, though she knew he couldn't see her bare breasts through the chiton. "There was little to do while you were unconscious. As I said in the mountains, you must come from a weak line, Clarke Griffin."

"I do not," she retorted, before she realized how ridiculous it was to argue with such a claim. Something occurred to her, and she cleared her throat to ask, "Did you change my clothes?"

Bellamy stared at her for a long moment, letting her squirm under the notion that he'd seen her naked. Then he blinked, and shook his head once. "Some servants of the Democratiki. They left you the rest to do for yourself."

The jerk of his head indicated a three-legged stool - the only other piece of furniture in the room - upon which was a folded piece of navy blue wool and a leather belt, and beneath the two, her bag. Clarke sidled over to the stool and went for the wool before Bellamy interrupted, "It is a hot day. Do not bother with the  _peplos_."

"So I'm just supposed to leave it here?"

"This is your room. It will be safe here." He gestured at the stool again. "Just the belt."

Clarke exchanged the wool for the belt, trying to remember her eleventh grade Ancient Civilizations course. Tying the belt securely around her waist and pulling some of the fabric up so it fell to cover it, she said, "I thought the chiton was supposed to be longer."

"You discuss things you have no concept of, Clarke Griffin," Bellamy replied. "Your histories speak of a time long gone. Our society has evolved over time, as has yours. We are not so restrictive as you would suppose us to be."

She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. Disliking the superior tone in his voice, she answered sharply, "I suppose nothing."

He made a derisive noise low in his throat. He pushed off the wall and stepped into her room, coming close before Clarke could try to move away. With rehearsed motions that somehow came off as mocking, he undid her belt and retied it so that the ends landed together where they trailed the knot. Once he adjusted the chiton accordingly, he looked her in the eye. "And you know nothing."

He turned away, but Clarke reached out and grabbed his arm before he could walk away. The inky tattoos beneath her fingers glowed blue for a second before fading to dark again, fast enough that Clarke wondered if she'd even seen it. But the way he jerked his arm back made her think she had.

"I came here to learn," she said, letting her questions about the glowing tattoos slide for the time being. "And you're going to help me."

He paused. A muscle leapt in his jaw. Then he looked back at her. "Then consider this your first lesson, Clarke Griffin: I am here by the Heda's orders only. I do not trust you, and I will never trust you, and of that you can be sure. But orders or no orders, if you tell me what to do one more time, I will throw you back into the ocean for the cetea to finish."

He seemed to wait for an answer, but Clarke couldn't find the words to argue with him. She didn't even know what she would argue about - she didn't trust him either. If anything, she would have agreed. She brought her hand back to her side, where it clenched into a fist.

When she remained silent, Bellamy nodded tersely. "Then we are understood. I will return in an hour. We begin our journey then."

"Our journey? What are you talking about? Where are we going?"

He was already at the door. As he disappeared from sight, he called back, "You ask too many questions."

Clarke stared after him for a while, just as much to process everything that had happened as to stop herself from running after him and calling him a number of things she usually reserved for extreme circumstances. As she slowly adjusted to the silence, she could hear fainter sounds - somewhere in the hallway beyond her door, two women were locked in conversation; chains rattled at a distance; a dog barked at a stranger. Across the way from her door, a wall inset with wide windows looked out onto a broad street, and Clarke saw the bobbing heads of horses pulling carts and ridden by men and women alike; she heard, rather than saw, the Atlantian people who walked about on their day-to-day business, laughing and shouting and arguing.

Then, a sound Clarke had forgotten to listen for: a muted buzzing coming from within the room. She glanced around for a moment until her eyes landed on her bag, placed carefully on the stool sometime while she'd been unconscious. In an instant, she had it open. The earpiece was lodged between her laptop and her camera, and she hastily put it in her ear.

It was silent for long enough that Clarke began to worry that it had gotten broken sometime over the course of the morning. Just as she moved to take it out, however, a shock of static filled her ear followed by Finn's tired voice: "So now it's my turn to monitor the comm. device. Since I doubt you're listening, Clarke, and since we're all in the midst of doubting that you're alive following the lack of responsive heartbeat on our monitors, I'm probably just shouting into a void right now, but hey. That's me. Void-shouter Finn. So how about I tell you about my rock collection? No one else appreciates it - "

"I've already heard about your rock collection, and I don't appreciate it because the most interesting thing you've got is a lump of jade," Clarke interrupted. She kept her tone relaxed, despite the fact that she couldn't stop smiling. She hadn't thought she would miss the sound of Finn's voice after a mere two days, but she suddenly found herself blinking away tears. Maybe it was partly due to the relief of still being alive.

Yeah. Right.

There was a strangled shout on the other end of the line. Finn's voice was suddenly a pitch higher. "Holy fucking Christ, Griffin!"

"Is that blasphemy? It sounds like blasphemy."

"You're alive!" There was a clattering noise from his end, like the sound of a stool falling over. "Tell me this isn't a delusion. Tell me."

Clarke sighed at his comment. "Actually, this would be a hallucination, if anything. A delusion is a sort of mental fantasy, whereas a hallucination is a false sensory experience. You can't have an auditory delusion."

"A yes or no would have sufficed."

Clarke grinned. "Yes. Yes, I'm alive."

And damn Bellamy's threats; she planned to stay that way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, yeah, I have a problem with updating. And I still need to finalize my plot, so I can't say when the next chapter will be either. But on the bright side, I've been nominated for a Bellarke Fanfiction Award! You can vote for this story [here](http://bellarkefanfictionawards.tumblr.com/trope:supernaturalmagic) (if you think it deserves it, which, given my update record, it might not).
> 
> Anyways...I hope you liked this chapter despite the wait. Clarke was an idiot today. Bellamy was also a bit of an ass. ("A bit.") But now we can get into learning about Atlantis, without Clarke making dumb shows of courage and Bellamy being a dick about it - okay, he's still going to be a dick, but at least he won't be stitching her up for a while now.
> 
> (I hope.)


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